


You're the Gift For Me

by Lauren_StDavid



Series: Beechwood [8]
Category: The Monkees, The Monkees (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Light Angst, M/M, Outdoor Sex, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Recreational Drug Use, Slight Micky / Davy, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:14:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 63,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21915817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lauren_StDavid/pseuds/Lauren_StDavid
Summary: A Monkees Christmas in snowy Connecticut, where Peter's determined to get his family - his father - to accept Mike as his partner...what could possibly go wrong?Huge thanks to the Sunshine Factory website https://monkees.coolcherrycream.com/ for all the fantastic info and pictures! I couldn't have written any of these fics without that lovely treasure trove to mine.And many thanks to 70mtt for all her help and encouragement!
Relationships: Mike Nesmith/Peter Tork
Series: Beechwood [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1206016
Comments: 158
Kudos: 37





	1. Chapter 1

Mike couldn’t see Peter’s knuckles as he was driving with gloves on, but he betted they were white where he was gripping hard on the steering wheel of the rented Waggoner. _He_ would have offered to drive, but he’d never driven on snow or ice, and some of these remote rural roads weren’t cleared.

“You didn’t even ask me,” Micky whined from the back seat, where he had his tongue stuck out of the opened crack of window, trying to catch swirling white snowflakes on it.

“You’re not used to these conditions either,” Mike said, aiming for diplomacy.

“Plus you kept standing up and sticking your head out to feel what snowflakes were like on your eyelids, until we closed the windows,” Davy added, a lot less diplomatically. He was probably still sulking because, despite him having grown up with cold and snow, in England, which Micky said was probably the same as _New_ England, Mike hadn’t felt easy about him taking the wheel of the large Jeep.

Mike took another glance at Peter’s firmed jaw. Their plane had been on time; the airport was only forty miles from Mansfield Center and they didn’t have a set time to arrive. Not really. So… “Babe, you wanna pull over, clear your head a minute?” he asked.

Without replying, Peter twisted the wheel and the vehicle swerved into the verge with a series of _thunks_ —mostly their luggage in the trunk, but also Micky’s head, against the glass. Peter pulled up the handbrake with a crunch and cut the engine with a click. No one spoke as he took a breath. He turned in his seat, sweeping first Mike, next to him, then the others, in the back, with his gaze. He looked paler here in Connecticut than he did in California, Mike thought. Or maybe that was just the stress he was under, returning, even having them with him. _Especially having us with him._

“Could we…have a Monkee huddle?” Peter asked.

The two in the back had shifted from the seat to the floor before he’d finished speaking, and Peter then Mike pushed through the gap between their seats to join them.

“This is a Monkee _snuggle_!” Micky’s tone was one of satisfaction, for all it was muffled, coming from the mass the four of them made.

“Huggle, maybe?” Mike suggested, wrapping his long arms around as many Monkees as he could and squeezing tightly for as long as Peter needed it.

Peter eventually let go and eased free. His smile looked more Peter-like than it had since they’d landed at Bradley Airport. “Thanks, guys. And cuddle, snuggle—it’s all good.”

“It sure is. And whatever you need, babe. Right?” Mike raised an eyebrow at the others, making them nod. “You need us to get you through this, we’re here.” He tilted his head onto Peter’s hand when Peter stroked his face in thanks.

“You know, I never knew these things could be so stressful,” Davy observed. “It’s a family Christmas get-together starting two days before the twenty-fifth, in the season of joy, not a bloody wake!”

“Exactly. Which is why I’m taking _my_ family with me.” Peter indicated the three of them.

Mike was still a little confused about the whole thing. Seemed the Torks—no; he had to get used to Peter’s actual last name. _And_ learn to pronounce it—had a more extended family gathering than usual every few Christmases or so, and seeing as Peter had missed the last two, he was deemed to have no excuse for not showing up for this one.

“It’s not that I _have_ to go. I want to, and I want to bring you all,” Peter tried again to explain. He sought Mike’s hand.

That was true, but Mike knew Peter’s father had paid Peter a visit and requested his presence. Paid a _surprise_ visit. Least, it had surprised Mike. And scared him a little, to let himself into the pad one day and see, sitting in Peter’s usual chair, Peter, but a Peter with thinning hair and his bangs combed back from his face in a neat side parting. From a face that was paler and more lined, just as his body was thinner and a little more stooped. A body that was dressed in a strange suit and tie and lace-up shoes—

“Oh, sweet baby _Jesus_ , Micky!” Mike had yelled, looking around wildly for him and grabbing at the door frame in support. “What in holy hell did you _do_?” Because of course his first thought was that Micky had concocted an aging potion and that Peter had drunk it. “You’d better have the antidote, boy, or as God is my witness—”

“Michael?” Peter’s voice had queried, from further back in the den. “I’m here.” And Mike, dragging his gaze from the figure, had seen Peter—real, young, tan and toned Peter in a tee and shorts—sitting opposite the other version of himself, the table between them, both of them staring at the other, like stags locking antlers.

As soon as Mike, stammering apologies, had gathered this was Peter’s father, in California for a conference and who’d dropped in unannounced, he’d made his excuses and taken himself off to the beach despite the December chill to give them some privacy. The man had been gone when Mike had come back in. Peter hadn’t revealed much about the meeting, but had told them all about the Christmas ‘plan’.

“And thanks again all of you for spending this holiday with my family and not yours,” Peter said.

“I wasn’t going anywhere,” Mike muttered. But yeah, good that Micky’s and Davy’s families were fine about them skipping Christmas and going for New Year instead.

“You said you’d only go if your found family could come with you.” Davy still sounded impressed. He had a strict father, Mike knew.

 _Found family._ At least he hadn’t said ‘family of choice’—that would be a bit of a kick in the teeth. Mike still wasn’t sure why Peter’s father had agreed. No choice, maybe? Just as they hadn’t, when they’d seen how determined Peter was about it.

“And I want them to meet Mike.” Peter thinned his lips and squeezed Mike’s hand harder.

“I asked before but got no answer, so I’ll just ask again… does your father…own a shotgun?” Micky inquired.

“Micky! What a question!” Davy scolded. “It’ll be fine, Mike. Least…you did pad the seat of your trousers with buckshot-proof wadding, and you’ve been practicing running, right?”

“It’s not like that. Not exactly.” Peter exhaled. “Look, these people, the way they live…it’s not my values, okay? Not the way I want to lead my life. It’s…” He gave in. “We’ll be there soon enough,” he muttered, taking his place behind the wheel again.

“Health scare,” Micky had said to Mike in private, after Peter had asked them to go with him. “His dad must’ve had some sorta medical issue and wants to… Well, it’s made him appreciate things. Appreciate family, you know?”

Mike sort of agreed with Micky’s assessment, but decided the whys and wherefores weren’t important. Being there for Peter was. “We’re here?” he asked, looking around at the town. He’d seen the name _Mansfield_ on a sign. It looked nice. Very New England, whatever that meant.

Peter shook his head and drove straight through the place. “Now,” he said a minute or two later.

“That?” Micky pointed through the rear window at the small, quiet village they’d just turned off from before they were half through. “Oh, man, I blinked and missed it! And there was me hoping we’d see the post office.” He clicked his fingers in frustration. “And…shouldn’t you have stopped? I’ve heard of a flying visit, but…”

“We’re not quite in _that_ buzzing hive of activity.” Peter swung left and up, almost doubling back the way they’d come.

This road was even more picture-postcard, all snow-covered trees and bushes, as was the park or gardens they drove into, through the open wooden gate. Mike caught two more puzzled faces, besides his own, in the mirror.

“Oh, you live on the grounds!” Davy sounded knowledgeable. “Like…there.”

 _There_ was a small house Peter slowed down to pass, peering at it. It seemed shut up, to Mike. No smoke puffed from the chimney, for instance. With a, “Hmmm. Guess Mutti and Papa aren’t in. They must be at the big house,” Peter accelerated up the track, to—

“The…” Mike stared.

“Big…” Davy pointed.

“House,” Micky concluded with a nod.

And it was, very big, with at least three bits, one big section in the middle, a smaller one either end, all white with gray roofs, and there were quite a few doors and quite a lot of windows and one huge farmers porch. The flag hung heavy with icicles and the flower baskets and pots wore a coat of snow.

“Go on. Say it,” Peter offered, driving past a handful of vehicles, around to the back which bore fewer doors and windows and a smaller porch.

“What, ‘why, fiddle dee dee, Ashley’? I wouldn’t.” Micky fanned himself with a hand and pulled a virtuous face.

“Especially as that was an antebellum plantation house and this is colonial.” Davy looked at them as they stared. “What? Just because I’m _extremely_ good-looking, I can’t be smart too?”

Mike was grateful to Davy for making Peter chuckle as they got out and made for the kitchen door. He turned to look out over the land, trying to get a sense of its size. _Big_ , was the best he could do, with its slopes and hollows, and any fencing all blurred by snow. He was also grateful for Peter’s sheepskin coat—although snow wasn’t falling, the cold air bit at him. He had no winter gear and Peter had claimed this wasn’t cold. Micky hadn’t any cold-weather clothes, either but looked dashing in Nyles’ coat. Davy had his old winter woollies and— Mike made a grab for him before he could go in.

“The grounds?” he asked. “You said ‘live on the grounds’? Of what?”

“This estate, whatever or whoever’s it is.” Davy waved a hand around. “And those words he used—”

“ _Mutti! Papa!_ ” came from the kitchen.

“Those. They mean Mum and Dad.” Davy headed into the warm, lovely-smelling kitchen, Mike following, to see Peter hugging a small, round, be-aproned woman then a taller man, one who made the white shirt and tucked-in tie he wore look like a uniform.

Peter spun the woman around to the waltz-type music playing from the corner, and the woman chattered on as she brushed his hair off his face, sounding like she was scolding and exclaiming. And Mike couldn’t understand a word.

“Everyone, this is Mutti and Papa,” Peter announced. “Michael, Micky, Davy, my _Hausmutter_ and _Hausvatter_.”

 _Oh-kay._ Adjusting his ideas, Mike was even more confused, as this guy now didn’t look how he remembered their visitor looking. But he knew his manners— “Sir.” Mike stuck out a hand at the man, who shook it, looking surprised.

The woman, Peter’s _Mutti_ , squawked and said something else to Peter that Mike couldn’t understand.

“I don’t think Peter’s friends speak German,” said the man, his voice a little accented. He turned down the record player.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” The woman shook her head. “I was saying that I can tell Peter had a haircut, but only just!”

It was true. They’d gone to the barber’s, to get ‘family-friendly’ as Micky put it, but Peter had had the slightest of trims. His hair looked as clean and shining as ever, and wasn’t in his eyes, but there was no way it couldn’t be called long.

“ _Aber,_ Mutti—” Peter began.

“Peter, you and your ways! You have your friends thinking we’re your actual parents!” she scolded, tearing a sheet of kitchen towel from a roll and wiping her hands with it. “I’m Inge and this is my husband, Paul.” She waited while they shook hands with her and her husband and for Micky to kiss her hand, with one longing eye on the tray of steaming-hot pastries cooling on one countertop.

“We’ve worked for the family since Peter was a baby,” Paul said.

“For so long that he calls us his house mother and father!” Inge explained.

Oh! _Wait, what?_ This couple were…a cook and whatever her husband, was? Someone who held out his hand for their car keys, talking about their _stuck_ or so it sounded. Mike was having to adjust his thinking, to redraw his mental map, so frequently and so quickly things were blurring at the edges.

“So go!” Inge urged, turning Peter in the direction of another door.

Something about lunch, she’d said? _Fine._ Mike followed the others out into a wide hallway.

“People are already here. We’d better wash up,” Peter announced.

But progress was slow with the three of them gawping at everything as they walked. Peter tutted and got behind them, to use his shoulders and hips to shove them inside a room that turned out to be a downstairs cloakroom.

“Oh, it’s Davy-friendly!” Micky exclaimed at the height of the row of pegs and the size of the boots and shoes under them. Mike thought the john and the…two triangular sinks in the room’s back corners were lower too.

“Oh, yippee.” Davy unzipped and used the john. “I’ve been desperate for ages. No peeking. What? I’m not the one who made a group activity out of this.”

At least Davy provided a note of normality.

“Force of habit,” Peter apologized. “This is the children’s washroom, and I still use it.”

Mike was still reeling a little as he hung up his coat and combed his hair—nudging Micky into doing so too, both of them bending to see in the mirrors—more so as he took in the room’s understated décor. One wall was evidently where any postcard the family received ended up—the space was almost full from the ground up, like a well-ordered collage. As he watched, Peter took another from a box on a small ledge designed to hold it and considered the display, then rearranged a couple of cards to stick the one he’d selected into the pattern or scheme.

Another wall bore cartoons and pictures, framed and…was that a hand-drawn family tree and crest, for God’s sake?

“Peter?” Micky swallowed, stroking a finger over one of several decorative glazed tiles set into one wall. “Are you like, a prince of the realm or something?”

“Micky! Don’t be daft. Of course he isn’t.” Davy finished washing his hands and pulled Micky outside into the corridor again. He jerked his head for Micky to look at the long line of photos, all similar, all of a row of boys, who all looked alike and were dressed alike in each photo, usually in shirts, shorts and long socks. They were obviously all close in age and always posed in height order, all of them getting bigger and older as the row of photos—and some drawings—progressed.

Mike stared: Peter was the eldest of the quartet.

“Ask me, he’s a Von Trapp,” Davy finished. He cocked his head in the direction of a door from where a man’s voice could be heard. “And I think we’re about to go eat lunch with the captain.”


	2. Chapter Two

Mike didn’t quite catch or understand Davy’s first sentence, but latched onto the second. “Captain? I thought your father was a professor.”

“Oh, Mike! I don’t mean he’s really a naval officer, any more than Pete’s mother a nun,” Micky scolded.

“Postulant, surely?” Peter looked his usual self as he debated with Micky. “She couldn’t have been a full nun. Wasn’t that the whole point, that she wasn’t suited to the cloistered life?”

Mike must have been gaping at them, because Micky whispered, “It’s a movie, Mike.”

“A stage play, first,” Davy corrected.

“Wait.” Catching something in Davy’s tone, Micky grabbed his arm. “Were you _in it_? Were you one of the _kids_?”

“Nah. Auditioned for it, though. Back in London.” Davy used the glass of a display case as a mirror and smoothed his hair. “Went all out. Learned all the songs and even a smattering of German.”

“Did you have L _ederhosen_?” Peter asked.

“Little leather shorts?” Davy pursed his lips, using the silver sheen of a round plate as a mirror now. “I didn’t when I got to the theater, but the director had a pair for me, shall we say.”

“Huh?”

“That he wanted me to change into, in front of him. Just him and me, in the props room, backstage. To see how they looked ’cause he wanted me to wear them in a club he’d love to take me too. A private club. In Soho. And when I say change into the tight leather shorts, I mean _just_ the tight leather shorts,” Davy answered Micky.

“Oooh. And what did you do?” Micky’s face had the rapt look it wore when Davy told one of his stories.

“Gave the nonce a fourp’ny one for his trouble, right in his cake ’ole.” Davy made a fist of his right hand and swung it upward and outward.

“I…didn’t really understand that last bit,” Micky confessed. “But just to ask if you…still sorta have the leather shorts, at all?”

“Mick, you bloody perv!” Davy exclaimed. “Okay, so my arse might look outtasight in leather—”

“Yeah, it does actually,” Micky said. “Oh, I’m saying that scientifically, you understand.”

“You’ve…studied my arse? God, you’re such a freak!” Davy frowned, interest blooming despite himself. “What, like, firmness, roundness…”

“Pertness,” Mike was just adding when the door to the room opened fully, with a sudden jerk.

The door opened fully and a man Mike had briefly seen in their pad stood there, arms folded and face frowning. “As precious as that information is, and as riveting as the discussion as a whole has been for the family to listen to”—he indicated the room behind him with a sweep of his hand—“if you’re intending to join us at the table, do you think you could possibly find a more suitable topic of conversation?”

Peter’s father. _Great._ Mike glared at Davy, teller of tales about short, tight leather shorts, and Micky, ogler of asses in general. “We’re real sorry, Mr. To—”

“Dr.,” came on the wind as the man strode back to the table. “My title is Dr.”

 _Of course it is._ Mike blamed the sickly-sweet scent of dried flowers in enormous bowls in the hall for making his head swim. The floral scent was strong after the tar-like aroma of the carbolic soap in the washroom. Thinking about them sprucing up reminded him. They all wore suits and ties…except Peter.

“Shouldn’t…” he started, then caught himself. Peter was entitled to dress as he pleased. “Nothing. We’re here for you.” And he smacked Peter’s ass as Peter walked in ahead of him, making him jump and Micky giggle, just as they passed a grand-looking elderly lady, whose eyebrows shot up to her hairline.

“Peter!” she exclaimed, pulling him in for a hug.

“Cait.” He gave her a big squeeze, then looked at the two ends of the table. “Mother. Father.”

“You have been told since you were eighteen that you may call us John and Ginia,” his father remarked.

“Father,” replied Peter, taking a seat.

“But you call your grandmother by her given name,” his mother said.

Mike jumped in before the blond brat could reply, “Mother.” He dashed to the end where Peter’s mother presided, his hand outstretched. “Ma’am. Pleased to meet you.” He then hurried to the other end of the table. It seemed a mile long, with two rows of spectators tracking his journey, like he was a ball in a tennis game. “Sir.” _Damn._ Should he acknowledge having met the guy before? “Thank you for inviting us into your home at this festive season. And it sure is one mighty fine home, too.” _Double damn._ Being nervous thickened up the Texas in him and made it float to the top.

“Thank you for your approval.” The man eyed him, then waved him to a seat, next to Peter, nodding the others into place too. “And you are?”

“Michael’s my partner, Father,” Peter informed him, including the table at large in his announcement. This included a grunt of teenagers, two of whom were his brothers, immortalized in the photo gallery out in the hall, and who both turned to Peter with eager, curious expressions.

“Christopher! Matthew! All joints on the table _will_ be carved!” shouted their father, making the two guys jump and take their elbows from the table.

Nice trick, Mike thought, especially as Davy and Micky—along with everyone else—were now sitting to attention too. He waited to see what John would reply. He didn’t think Peter’s father would be silenced by the interruption of Davy and Micky being introduced, or them being urged to eat, and helped to food from the array of dishes on the table. A platter of boiled ham and one of roast beef shone among the dishes of vegetables.

“ _Partner_ , you say.” John took a mouthful of wine.

Yep, regrouping. Mike had called it.

“In your…musical band?”

“Yes,” Peter replied.

 _Stop there, shotgun_ , Mike silently begged, feeling weak with relief in the beat of silence that followed.

“As well,” Peter added, spooning boiled potatoes onto Mike’s plate for him.

_Ooh, the little—_

“As well as…? I must say, you’re being rather elliptical.” John leaned toward him.

“ _Elliptical?_ ” Micky mouthed, sketching a curved shape in the air.

“Tending to be ambiguous, cryptic or obscure,” Ginia called down to him.

“Oh, you want me to spell it out?” Peter asked.

“If it helps any, I got a picture,” Micky announced.

“Did Amanda draw it?” Davy asked him, spearing a slice of roast beef, his smile and wink at the female cousin who held it out to him making her blush.

Mike glared. If he saw so much as a twinkle of one star in anyone’s eye—

Micky, helping himself to ham, nodded. “Yeah, actually. And she colored it in. Flesh tones and everything. You can really see their p—”

“Partner in crime?” suggested an uncle, smiling around the table.

“No. Partner in life,” Peter stated.

“ _Ha!_ ” The straighter-haired of Peter’s brothers slapped the table and pointed across it at his wavier-haired brother. “Told you! I called fag, not commie. That’s five greenbacks you owe me, loser! Don’t worry, Pete—I’ll cut you in for half.”

“No fair! You always win, Chris! Bets, games…doesn’t matter. You just do. Well, I don’t got me no five-spot,” Matthew answered, despondent.

“You two!” John thumped the table, his voice thunderous. “I will not have this, this _pidgin_ at the table!”

The clatter was Micky dropping his fork, with a hunk of meat that he’d thought was beef on it. He clapped a hand over his mouth and a strangled gargle fought to get free.

“It’s not exactly _pidgin_ , surely?” Ginia said. “The two of them are hardly speakers of two different languages with a need for limited communication, for instance to trade, now are they?”

“They were using that language to make a trade, yes!” her husband countered. “The specific capacity of that piece of speech and communication was betting.”

“Oh, that’s sophistry, John.” Chris looked his father to his mother. “It was an example of dialect, if anything. You know, a variety of a language used by a particular group? The group being youth, in this case.”

“Yeah, right on,” Micky agreed. “Davy?”

“Truth, brother.” Davy was on board.

“I agree…in part.” Most of the table groaned at Ginia’s words. She continued, “Yes, it was a variety spoken by youth, making it an example of the _vernacular_ , in fact—a strain defined as everyday speech or dialect, including colloquialisms.”

“Street,” Micky agreed again. “Davy?”

“Slang.” Davy spoke around the last of the beef in his mouth.

“Jargon,” Matt added.

“Argot.” Chris had the final word. He shook Micky’s hand.

Oh God. Mike saw an unholy alliance forming right before his eyes. Peter’s brothers were about Micky and Davy’s ages…

“Yes, definitely not pidgin,” their grandmother, Cait, declared, right before she pulled a gavel from her bag and banged it down on the table.

“But…” Mike bit his lips. But it was the same sort of gavel that they used for meetings in the pad! Had Peter brought one with him when he’d moved in?

“I bow my head in defeat.” John…bowed his head.

“You’re slipping,” Peter remarked.

“He’s been drinking,” said Cait in a stage-whisper.

“Well, yes, the day does have a _Y_ in it,” Peter muttered.

“Talking of…” John reached for another two bottles of wine, a red and a white, and a corkscrew appeared in his hand. He used it with lightning speed, then filled his own glasses first, reminding Mike of someone. “Peter? As the first-born, do the pretty?”

Peter took the two bottles and went down and around the table with them, refilling glasses. When he reached Mike, he rolled his eyes and gave a slight head shake. Mike deciphered it easily and stroked Peter’s leg, just at the back of his knee, earning a choked-off gasp from the aunt next to him.

Fighting the heat of the crackling fireplace, Mike listened in to the others’ conversation with Peter’s brothers, finding out Chris had just started college—the college both John and Ginia taught at—and Matt was still at high school. Mike didn’t know which one to feel sorrier for: in second place, after himself, the way John’s glare raked him. Although, Mike supposed, taking a glug of wine, that might be the guy’s normal way of looking at something.

“Hark!” John held up a finger. “The clock is about to strike two, signaling the end of lunch, which was clearly marked on the itinerary as being from midday until two. Meaning anyone who hasn’t arrived is _too late_.”

He looked pleased at that and Mike felt happy about it too. Getting away from the table would be good. And after the antiseptic-iron tang of the washroom and the floral cloud of the hall, the Scandinavian scent of the holly, fir and bay leaf garlands, plus the baskets of pine cones, was powerful.

“One…” John echoed, along with the clock. But before the clock struck two, a loud knock and cheerful singing came at the front door, and that, plus John’s “Damn!” drowned out the next chime. He scowled at the cheers and claps ringing around the table. “My brother, Bryn,” he explained. “He does this every year, cuts it so fine…”

Mike tried not to grin. He listened to the noises of arrival and greetings from the hall. Ginia coughed and caught her husband’s eye.

“Ah, yes.” John looked as though he were rolling a sour candy around his mouth. “While he and his family divest themselves of their no-doubt rather gaudy outerwear, it behoves me to mention my niece Stacia. She is, I’m told, not uncomely—”

“Father!” cried Peter. “Do you have to? Just say she’s pretty, for God’s sake.”

“Not uncomely, and I don’t see what God has to do with it,” John continued, after a long pause. “To the extent, or so I’m informed, that she has been rewarded for this _allure_ with a sash and a tiara.” He gave a huge shrug of incomprehension. “Now, I have no idea of your…predilections”—this with a glare at Davy and Micky—“but her father, my brother, is a somewhat…intractable person, so, as long as Stacia is under this roof, you are instructed to think of her as…shall we say…a tired kangaroo.”

Mike thought he couldn’t the only one finding the silence that greeted this as dense as a maze.

“Anyone?” John’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction.

Davy raised a hand. “Out of bounds?”

“Indeed.” John inclined his head at him. Mike stared.

“We must’ve had the same box of crackers last year.” Davy finished his wine.

In the flurry of more family, include the not uncomely stunning beauty Stacia coming in to what was now not even lukewarm food, Mike had just about succeeded in catching the other threes’ eyes and nodding at the door, to indicate they could scram, when dessert was brought in.

Everyone watched four different colored fruit molds being placed in a line down the middle of the table, the formation broken up by round platters holding little nests of meringue shells filled with something Mike couldn’t see and topped with berries, and two rectangular dishes of ribbon fudge cut into squares. Peter sat up and scanned the offerings.

“I wouldn’t forget!” Inge assured him. She whipped a chocolate sponge thing in a dish from behind her back and placed it in in front of him, and Peter passed Mike a spoon to share it with him.

“Micky, the gelatin mold is not an individual portion!” Mike hissed when Micky hooked it toward him, a spoon in his other hand. The dessert wobbled to a stop and the spoon dropped sadly onto the table.

Mike had never been so glad to see a corridor in his life as he was when they all headed out of the dining room.

“Itinerary in its usual place?” Peter inquired of his brothers.

“Next to the small trophy case.” Chris pointed.

“The one Father’s saving space in for my gold records.” Peter’s voice was tight, and he and the others went to check the typed schedule posted there.

Mike stayed where he was, more interested in the rows of photos, especially the later ones. He whipped around at someone struggling to exit the dining room and opened the door fully for Ginia. He hadn’t really appreciated how pretty she was. Peter had something of her air, Mike thought.

“Oh, the old pictures.” Ginia nodded where Mike was looking. “A habit, you know?”

“Yeah…” Mike pointed at the ones on the end. “Who’s the girl, in so many of them, and the drawings, with Pete?”

“Hilary.” Ginia smiled.

“Not…a daughter?” Worth a try.

“Sadly, no.” She came and blew any dust from the glass of a photo of the pair of them on the porch. “I wish. I would like her for a daughter, you know? Well, we can but try…” She wandered off, leaving Mike alone.

 _Okay._ So there was a girl Peter’s parents wanted…for a daughter. Wanted…for Peter. _Okay. Good to know._ Mike swallowed and joined the others.


	3. Chapter Three

“Michael? What it is?”

“Nothing,” Mike answered Peter, and smoothed out the crease in Peter’s forehead. He wanted Peter to be as much at ease as possible this trip, not add to his stress. “Where we headed now? Feel I should get myself a map and compass here. Oh, it’s a lovely house,” he added, not wanting Peter to feel…defensive? “I bet it was a great place to grow up.” But didn’t he remember Peter saying once it was lonely, or isolated, or something?

“It…had its moments, I guess. Where are we going? To the mud room.”

“The changing room,” called Chris.

“The big cloakroom.” Nick threw in. “It has a few names.”

“We need rain boots and thick coats and…I’ll get ours.” Tutting at his forgetfulness, Peter swung into the small washroom when they passed it. They seemed to be heading into the back of the house once more, to near where they’d come in.

“Sorry,” Peter said, emerging with the coats they’d hung up earlier. “That scene with Father has me on edge. Isn’t he a nightmare? I’m really sorry for the way he deflected and didn’t deal with what I told him. But I’ll make him understand.”

“We’ll talk later, okay?” Mike jerked a chin at all the little ears listening in. Peter nodded. “You should take your coat back.” He helped Peter into it. “It’s yours and I like seeing you in it.”

Peter nuzzled into the collar. “It smells of you now. I like it.”

He liked wearing the tiniest hint of Mike’s cologne, just for Mike to detect…as much as Mike liked him wearing it. He took a while settling the coat on Peter, needing to touch him. Seemed Peter needed it too.

“Thanks. There should be more outdoor stuff in here.” Peter went in first. This cloakroom was bigger and more basic and held adult-sized clothes and footwear.

“This should fit me—all right to grab it?” Mike unhooked the darker brown shearling sheepskin long jacket. “It’s kinda like yours!” He supposed it must belong to the brother who hadn’t arrived yet—if he was coming. He found rubber boots too. “Rain boots, right?” he said to Peter, the user of fancier vocabulary.

“They’re galoshes,” Micky said.

“Wellies.” Davy’s exotic name for them won and shut them all up.

Outside, Peter pulled on a knitted wool hat, making Mike grin. “You look…warm,” he finished, mindful of the flock of brothers and cousins around them.

“What, this old toque?”

“Toboggan,” Mike corrected. “Really! It’s the southern name for them.”

“Beanie,” called Micky.

“Bobble hat or pom-pom hat,” Davy said.

“If that’s the regional variations over and done with…” Mike ground a foot down into the snow, feeling the loose powder harden and scrunch under his toe and heel. He took a sniff, curious what snow smelled like. Fresh, clean air, apparently. Peter watched him, grinning lopsidedly, making Mike smile too.

“Peter…I gotta ask…” Matt sidled up, speaking softly and looking from him to Mike. “Are you a commie, at all? If so, I can win that five-spot back.”

Without answering, Peter pushed him in the chest, making him fall right over Chris, who’d secretly crouched down behind him. Mike…didn’t know what to make of that. It seemed a little cruel? But both brothers pulled Matt up and Peter dusted him down.

“Hey, beat me to the Waggoner, you can drive,” Peter told Matt, sprinting off. He let his youngest brother win. They all piled into the Jeep, and after checking the trunk, Peter squeezed into the back seat too.

Mike checked that the beauty queen with long strawberry-blonde hair and green eyes was not in their car. Better safe than very, very sorry. “Where we going?” he asked.

“Where anyone who’s anyone hangs out this time of year. The hill,” Matt said from the driver’s seat.

“That a club? Nah, too early. Bar?”

“Café?” Davy added to Micky’s guesses. “Oh. Literally a hill,” he understood a minute later when they pulled into an impromptu parking lot near to where people dotted the field’s high white slope and its summit. 

It reminded Mike a little of the look-out place he and Peter went to, although he’d be surprised if this was as…tolerant. He helped Peter take the stuff out of the Jeep’s trunk. “We should keep an eye on—”

“Micky?” Peter finished, pointing at the hill, where Micky was on his side…rolling himself down, over and over, whooping and squealing and making a human snowman of himself as he went.

“Now sledging on snow I can understand,” Davy said, taking the rope of a toboggan. “But rolling on it? He’s gone bloody doolally tap.” He spoke loudly enough for the handful of girl cousins who’d gone with them to be charmed by his Englishness.

Mike laughed to see literal dog sledding—a dog on the front of a sled with its human on the back. This was fun, and, Mike not having brothers or even close male cousins, was interested to see the different physical features he loved on Peter spread out amongst his brothers. Some were diluted, some stronger, and he could also trace bits of their parents in them too. It’d be interesting to see with the whole family together, later.

Much much more enjoyable was being on the two-man—or two-Monkee—sled with Peter, first behind him, his long legs over Peter’s, while Peter showed him how to steer, then in front, with Peter behind and pressed against him. He didn’t manage such a neat finish as Peter, meaning they were hurled together in an abrupt stop…which was even better. Peter pulled him to his feet and them both out of the way of other toboggans.

“Here.” Peter fished a small round pot from a pocket and held it out to Mike. “Lip salve. Can’t have that pouty lower lip getting chapped, can we.”

Mike tugged off a glove with his teeth and rubbed some on, then, checking carefully around them, smoothed some onto Peter’s lips too. Despite the gloves, his fingers were cold, making touching Peter a different sensation to usual. Something else interesting. “Go again?” he suggested, shading his eyes to look back up the hill.

“You’ll be sore later,” Peter warned.

“Oh yeah? Why, what you got in mind there, shotgun?” Mike’s grin spread to Peter’s face.

“God, it’s ages since I fucked you!” Peter exclaimed in surprise.

“Sure is.” Mike took a step nearer, so their hips could touch where they stood side by side. “And you know, seeing you here in your natural habitat, your element…it’s kinda turning me on.”

“Oh yeah? Whatcha in the mood for there, tiger?” Peter’s Mike imitation was note-perfect and got Mike harder.

But whatever Mike might have replied was lost in the splat of the snowball hitting him on the back of the head, and the whoop that accompanied it, both from a fleeing Micky.

“The little fink!” Mike raged, bending to scoop up snow for a missile of his own.

“Hey, save some snowball-throwing energy for the storm-the-fort game in the garden!” Peter called after Micky. “There’s usually one and it’s always competitive. Well, most things are with John.”

“You called your father John!” Mike sing-songed.

“Oh, I do behind his back,” Peter confessed.

“Was it…” Mike wanted to say something about Peter’s relationship with his father, but didn’t know how to start, much less how to phrase it.

“Look, real dog sledding!” Matt’s comment made Mike jump, and he turned in the direction indicated to see a dog hauling a sled up the hill by itself, while a toddler cried at being robbed of its possession. The dog got to the top and jumped on, enjoying its voyage down. It tricked the kid, pretending it was going to hand over the rope of the sled, then set off again, the bawling toddler trying to follow.

“Makes me miss Boxer Three,” Matt said. “He was a tease too.”

“We always had boxer dogs,” Peter explained. “From the same line. Same family. But not anymore, it seems. The house feels wrong without a dog.”

It made Mike more determined than ever to get them a pet for the pad. He’d get Micky to help him blackmail Babbitt, if necessary. It had worked before, getting them the pad in the first place… He squinted at the clump of trees and bushes halfway up the hill, off to the side. “Micky’s signalling. Looks like he’s had a brilliant idea?”

“Or an aneurism,” Peter commented, on Micky’s frantic movements. “What’s he doing half-hidden over there?”

They soon found out. “Fuck’s sake, Micky!” Mike jumped back to avoid any splash of the hot yellow liquid. “Stop! Put the damn thing away, and right now, you hear?”

“There’s no way you can write your full name in pee in the snow, you know,” Peter commented.

“And that’s the kind of fighting talk that started this,” Micky replied. He was straining already and only on the _M_. “I thought we could all do it, like a poem. Then take a photo, as a souvenir.”

“That’s…not exactly the kinda thing Peter’s ma wants on her wall of memories,” Mike told him.

“The one good thing is Mick’s pee writing’s as messy as his handwriting, so no one can read who did it,” Davy observed.

“They’re not gonna do it!” Micky called, making a throat-slash sign up into tree where Chris, camera in hand, lay on a branch like a leopard. A leopard who yelled and leaped down.

“Nick!”

Mike had just turned to meet the as-yet absent brother when with a, “Grraaargh!” a fur-coat-wearing figure leaped out from behind the tree.

“Help! It’s a wild grizz-ilary!” Peter shouted. He grabbed the figure and swung it around. Its fur hood fell back, to reveal the girl in the photos with Peter. Hilary.

Mike tried not to stare at the pleasant-faced, light-brown-haired woman throughout the overlapping introductions of the three of them to Nick and Hilary, and Peter asking Nick and Hilary when he and she had gotten there.

“I haven’t seen you since the spring,” he said to her.

“New York. The Village.” Hilary nodded, her bright eyes on his.

“I bumped into Hilary when I was…” Peter slowed, taking in Nick’s arm wrapping around the girl’s waist to pull her closer to him. “Oh? I didn’t know…” He waved a vague hand at them.

“It’s recent,” Hilary said, her eyes searching Peter’s face.

“Wow!” Peter looked nothing except delighted, clapping both their shoulders and making sure their brothers knew, leaving Mike again reaching for a mental pencil eraser to redraw his map. He’d assumed—

A shout from farther down the slope had them turning and starting down to whoever it was.

“Hold on. Back in a minute,” Peter promised Mike, nudging his brothers to go greet someone with him.

Hilary was staring after Peter just like Mike was, and their glances snagged. _Right._ “Ma’am, erm, Hilary,” Mike started, checking Davy and Micky were far enough away. “I’m from Texas. Means I’m plain spoken…”

“Whatever you want to say, please do. I shan’t mind. I hope.” Hilary chewed her bottom lip.

“Just, I saw a few photos and drawings back at the house? You and Peter?” Mike tried to recall if all four brothers had been in them, actually. Maybe, but he still felt a vibe here.

“Oh, yes. I have copies of all those and souvenirs from other dates. Here in town, or high school dances, or events when Peter was in college, or in Greenwich Village.”

“Hilary—” Mike tried to interpret her expression and tone.

“I know I shouldn’t ask, but is he seeing anyone?” she continued.

Stuck for words, Mike was glad when Nick re-joined them.

“Everything okay? I can’t remember where we have to be, but Pete says you’ll have the list memorized,” he asked Hilary.

“Yep – skating on the lake with roasted chestnuts and mulled wine. We’d better go.” She chatted easily to both of them as she held Nick’s hand and they rounded up the group back into the cars.

Mike was distracted—which meant Micky slipped into the car containing the beauty queen cousin—and then it was impossible to talk, at the fenced-off frozen lake on the back forty, or whatever they called this less groomed-looking bit of the property here. No, maybe it was an estate, like Davy had said. Davy, who tore himself away from the different girl-cousin he was consoling himself with, strapped on a pair of skates and whirled and twirled as well as any of the family, including Peter’s parents, who didn’t take much persuading to waltz on the ice.

Mike thought he was hearing things when the music started, but no, Paul was operating the wind-up phonograph and supervising the mulled _Glühwein_ while Inge was cooking chestnuts in a fire and letting Micky toast marshmallows over it.

“I know. So Dickensian.” Peter laced up the skates someone had relinquished to him and stood. He stamped a foot. “Since Father got tenure, he’s gone Victorian. Which sits oddly with his FDR New Deal-worshipping liberalism, right? Just like his competitiveness does.”

“Peter, come skate with me!” Hilary grabbed Peter before he could reply, and they were off, obviously having done this before. Mike betted she had a photo of each and every time. And FDR, Peter had said? The whole gathering-of-the-clan and the athleticism and competitiveness struck Mike as being more Kennedy-like. He straightened as John came to lean on the fence near him, watching Peter spin in a circle.

Peter’s hat fell off with the motion and he broke free to pick it up and give it to Mike to hold.

“Your hair’s still long,” his father commented.

“I cut it, as ordered,” Peter replied. “And I have proof. Here.” He pulled two strips of photo-kiosk photos from his pocket and handed them over. “Before and after.” They were from the most recent haircut, of a week earlier, and there was hardly any difference between the two sets of images, Mike would have to admit.

“Thank you. I’ll add them to the collection. It grows apace. Rather like your hair,” John called, as Peter zoomed off.

He had to join in the conga line of strong arms holding up Micky, in his attempt to move on the ice.

“It takes a village. Or an estate,” Mike observed, startled at the laugh this pulled from John, before he moved away. Mike’s next visitor was Hilary, who, playing hostess, handed him a plastic beaker of the hot chocolate Inge had steaming. He thanked her, but she had eyes for only one person. Enough was enough. No preamble this time, just straight talking, Mike decided. There was no one in earshot—

“You do know you’re staring at Pete, even though you’re supposedly with his brother?” he said.

This had Hilary turning to him. She pulled a rueful face. “Heavens. Is it so very obvious I still have feelings for him?”


	4. Chapter Four

“You’re…” Mike didn’t know what to say and didn’t trust himself to answer. Confusion swirled about him, trying to pull him in, whirl him apart. No, not confusion—emotions. One after another. Disbelief. Doubt. Suspicion. He grabbed at that one as it spun around. And yeah, spun as if it revolved on a wheel, like in a game show, because he was in the middle of a game these two were playing. And just as she was using Peter’s brother to make Peter jealous, Peter was using Mike to make _her_ , what? Come to heel?

 _No._ He wouldn’t believe that. Peter wouldn’t— _Wouldn’t Peter have said, though, if his ex was going to be here?_ Explained, prepared Mike? _Like he did about having been married?_ asked a little voice, stickling needles into Mike with every word.

“Hilly? Come have a glass of wine!” Peter’s mom beckoned Hilary over, then patted the folding chair next to her, and Hilary shot over, smiling happily and taking Ginia’s hand. Well, Ginia had made no secret of what she wanted. She wasn’t the one keeping things hidden.

Mad, Mike grabbed Peter’s rubber boots, walked around the fence to its far side and beckoned Peter off the ice. He came, his face creasing when he saw Mike’s expression. Mike dropped his boots for him to change into and walked off. Within a minute Peter had joined him, still shoving his feet into the footwear. He caught Mike’s arm and made him stop.

“Whatever’s happened, we’ll deal— Wait. Was it my father? Did he—”

“No,” Mike was quick to reassure him. He hated that darkening of Peter’s sun. He gave a rusty-sounding chuckle. “Seems _he’s_ blameless.”

“But _I’m_ —” Peter didn’t complete the sentence. He stood still in front of Mike, breathing in slowly and letting it out even slower, until Mike copied him. “Okay. Go on?”

Again, Mike wasn’t sure how to start this. Or, again, what _this_ actually was. “Tell me about Hilary,” he said. “Your ex.”

“ _Ex?_ ” Peter’s beam was natural, unforced. “She’s not my ex! She’s a family friend. Like a cousin. A not uncomely cousin.”

Mike wanted to laugh, but couldn’t. “You were at high school together? Dated?”

“We met there, made friends there. Hung out together some, sure.”

“Did she go to the same college you did?”

“No. She came to visit me a couple times, though. And she likes the Village, so she visited there too. But dated? No!”

“Peter, _she_ thought they were dates!”

Peter frowned. “What are you suggesting, that I led her on? Lied to her?”

“No.” He believed Peter. “But she said…”

“What?” Peter sighed when Mike clammed up. “You’re wrong, Michael. Think about your pattern of behavior. Your tendencies. You’re working on things, which is great and which I admire, but you’re not fully there yet. You still interpret things…negatively. Look for the worst.” He took Mike’s hand and held it in both of his. “It’s being here. It’s put you on edge. On the defensive. Looking for…I don’t know. Problems?”

“ _No._ I’m not crazy or hysterical, Peter!”

“I…didn’t say you were, and that’s not what I think.” Peter’s tone became guarded. Then he forced out a laugh. “Look at her. She’s not brunette enough for me, for one thing. And you know the build I go for in chicks.”

“Tiny,” Mike whispered, considering the not-petite Hilary. “Okay. I…” _No._ His mind weathervaned. “Wanna sort this out now. Any objection?” And if he was imagining things, making mountains outta moonshine, he’d take what he deserved. “Hey, Hilary?”

She’d stood and had gone over to the bonfire, and turned on hearing her name. Mike motioned her over.

“Tell Peter what you told me. About him.” He felt like a gambler, staking it all on one throw of the dice.

“What?” She looked from one to the other, and the time it took her to speak again aged Mike. “That…I hoped for years something would develop between us? That I did a lot of imagining, and wishful thinking?”

Her simple honesty hit like a punch to the chest. Or in Peter’s case, between the eyes, leaving him blinking. “What?” he stammered. “I don’t understand.”

She blushed. Mike thought she was glad to have gotten it out, but he felt bad for forcing things.

“But you’re here with Nick—dating Nick!” Peter exclaimed. “Where does this leave him?”

 _A substitute. Or second best_ , Mike thought, and saw Peter catch that.

“No. You’re not…like that!” he protested. “Michael, Hilary’s not a user. Not a faker.”

“I don’t know what to tell you. But you seem to think I’ve just _settled_ for Nick, for some reason? It’s not that.” Hilary looked over to where Nick was towing a younger kid over the ice. “In a way, I’m grateful to you, Peter. If it hadn’t been for you, for this…I wouldn’t have grown closer to him, realized what a great guy he is, and we might not have started seeing each other.”

She swung around to wave in response to a signal from Peter’s parents and grandmother. Peter caught her sleeve before she could start to walk off. “And you realize you’ll always be just a friend to me? You accept that?”

“Yes, of course, Peter!” Her tone was heated. “I’m not _pining_ for you. Not broken-hearted. Not exactly. It’s just you’ll always mean a lot to me, as my first love…even if unrequited. You’ll always be special to me. I can’t change that and I wouldn’t want to. Are you happy for me and Nick?”

“Of course!”

“That that’s fine.” She nodded, walking away.

“Hey, Hilary?” Mike’s turn to stop her. “Do you play any instrument?”

“Me? No! I’m tone deaf. You’ll see later,” she called, already hurrying back to John and Ginia.

Peter stared after her for a moment, and Mike tried to understand the silence she had left behind.

“Please believe I had no idea.” Peter blew out a breath. Mike nodded. Peter didn’t have. Well, not…consciously, anyway. He was an intuitive guy, one who picked up on vibes, and so must have sensed— “And… _God_ , Michael, I’m sorry if it seemed I doubted you, or made you doubt yourself.”

“Thank you,” Mike replied, after a pause. He still couldn’t put a name to everything he was feeling, but the cool, wet wave passing over him he did recognize. _Relief._ “I’m sorry too, for…” _Forcing things? That last little check?_ Because he knew Peter liked them small, with long dark hair, and musical.

“Should we tell Nick?”

Mike liked that they were a _we_ again so quickly. Or still, he supposed. This hadn’t threatened them. Had barely rocked them. And _that_ understanding brought balm in its undertow. “I don’t know.”

They both watched someone—some uncle, Mike thought—take a photo of Hilary with Peter’s mother and grandmother. Cait slung her fox fur around the other two’s shoulders and they posed with it, all the women laughing. “She…kinda seems to like the family? Maybe that’s more what this is about?”

“I don’t know,” Peter echoed. “Mom and Dad have always liked her.” He didn’t seem to notice what he’d called his parents. “This is complicated.” He shook himself, like a dog coming out of water. “Enough of that. Of other people and their tangles that we can’t fix. It’s time for us. Come on.”

“Where?” Mike seemed to be asking that a lot since they’d got here.

Peter grinned over his shoulder. “I’m taking you for a drive.”

Mike also seemed to be trailing after Peter a lot since they’d got here. In this instance, to the structure nestled into the trees, keeping it tucked out of sight. It was a building made of wooden slats with a corrugated roof, reminding Mike of a cage, but it turned out to be a drive-through shed, one housing a vehicle.

“A tractor?” He supposed it must be, although the dinky-looking red and gray Ford with its two huge back wheels and two small front ones looked like the cabin of a toy train made big.

“Meet Jud. Full name, the Juddernaught.” Peter sat in the small seat and started the engine. It turned over quicker than Mike had expected. “Hop on up. And yes, I’m in the driving seat.”

Mike, jumping onto the step behind the two rear wheels, allowed him that smirk. He took Peter’s hat from his pocket and pulled it onto Peter’s head for him, then clutched Peter’s shoulders as they set off. “Am I allowed to ask the destination?” he inquired over the noise and juddering of the vehicle, enjoying seeing the crowd being left in their wake.

“I’m taking you to my tree,” Peter called.

“From a hill to a tree,” Mike intoned, to the tune of _From a Jack to a King_ , and Peter’s laughter made the tractor shudder in the snow, and Mike grip hard to Peter’s shaking shoulders to stay on.

Mike guessed which the tree was as soon as they came to a small copse—the one that still had leaves. A mature oak, was as expert as his guess would get him. “It’s pretty,” he assured Peter when he’d cut the engine and jumped down too.

“It’s prettier inside.” Peter held the branches up like a curtain, for Mike to enter.

It was quieter, too, and intimate under the long, drooping branches that reached the floor all around them. It wasn’t shelter, exactly, although Mike thought it was warmer. Maybe he’d just grown used to the cold, and it no longer buffeted him, but wrapped him, like a layer. The branches made a faint-scented cave about them, the light muted. Mike turned to Peter, catching the look in his eye. “So, tree?” _Why?_

“Feel the bark. Its ridges and furrows.” Peter pulled both their gloves off and crowded against Mike, to place Mike’s fingers on the trunk. “You can grip it tightly.”

“And why would I do that?” Mike murmured against Peter’s lips.

“Remember earlier?” Peter murmured back.

Mike did. He might have supposed he’d be the one taking Peter, after that incident. Asserting himself, his masculinity. Making Peter his. Dominating him. All that crap. But it was true what Peter had said: it’d been a while since Peter was in the driving seat, to borrow his pun of a little earlier. Peter traced the slow smile blooming on Mike’s face.

“When I take you hard.” Peter completed his sentence of a few seconds’ ago.

Mike had fucked against a tree before, but not like this, and not in the cold and snow. He was content to let Peter make the moves, to crowd him against the trunk, nipping at that spot behind Mike’s ear that drove him wild, while he reached around and undid his pants, then his own.

“We have to be quick,” Peter whispered, nuzzling hard into Mike’s neck before pulling away.

Neither the exposure or the increased cold shocked Mike, but the first slick touch of Peter’s finger at his hole had his hands gripping the tree trunk, as Peter had said they would. _Lube?_ No, lip balm, he reasoned, his nails digging into the ridged bark when Peter stroked and slipped slightly inside him, circling a slippery finger.

“And being quick means no prep,” Peter continued, his whisper wicked in the rustle of the leaves. He pressed against Mike, showing him his body was hard and ready.

“I know…” Mike’s last word turned into a long, groaned note when Peter breached him, a sound that was bitten off in a soundless gasp when Peter pushed hard and deep.

Impatient, perhaps, Peter pulled Mike’s hips away, raising them…and impaling Mike on him. Mike froze, despite himself, then rested his head on his hands with his body curved into almost a prayer position. Was it the angle? Peter’s mood? Whatever, Peter felt huge inside him, forcing him wide open and filling him completely. And not just physically—with the sense of being owned, of being taken over by Peter. And it made Mike _hard_.

“Okay?” Peter muttered, sounding as though his teeth were gritted.

“Wait. Need a second.” Mike inhaled, forcing air into his lungs and himself to relax, to accept the penetration. When he could, he made his head nod. “ _Move._ ” It was both instruction and warning, because he pushed back into the hardness filling him at the same time as he unfolded his arms to hug the tree and breathed deep through his nose.

And Peter did, pulling all the way out, teasing with the tip of his cock and giving Mike respite before surging in again, the head of his cock brushing over Mike’s prostate as he bottomed out, turning the stretch and burn into quick, thick, dirty pleasure. He pushed his head into the crook of Mike’s neck, trying to reach Mike’s lips, and Mike sought Peter’s too as much as Peter’s iron grip on his hips allowed movement.

Peter drove deep again, and Mike slammed back to meet his stroke again, both of them grunting with the hard thrust. Mike’s spine itched with the sweat running down it, and he smelled salt and musk—his and Peter’s—above the clear-water of the snow and the almost-smoke of the oak. His orgasm built bright and hot in seconds, a swell threatening to burst, and he got a hand to his dick at the same time Peter did, so they both made a tight fist for Mike to fuck.

The cry started from him, when his release ripped through him, the hot pulse tensing his entire body, but Peter echoed it a half-second later, higher and sharper, shuddering his climax into Mike. Mike’s forehead hit the tree, but it wasn’t enough to keep him upright. He sagged slowly down, his knees hitting the ground, making Peter pull out, although Peter followed him down, still close behind him, and now curved over him. Mike’s ass clenched at the emptiness, and he reached out blindly for Peter’s hand where it rested on his hip, needing the contact.

His other hand was propping him up, flat on the ground for support and Mike was just thankful it wasn’t so snowy under the tree as it was outside it. He looked up at the tree trunk. “I think I added new scratches there,” he confessed, feeling the warm breath of amusement Peter huffed on his neck. They both straightened and rose, helping each other zip up, and a thought struck Mike. “You bring more people here?”

“ _Michael_ ,” Peter began, what Mike supposed was exasperation coloring his tone.

“Sorry!” Mike held up his hands in apology and Peter cleaned them, and his, with a handkerchief from his pocket. “Guess we’d better get back?” he asked, hoping he could force his legs and arms to move in coordination with his brain. Yeah, he could, if the way he looped one around Peter and eased him in to drop a kiss on his lips and a filthy compliment in his ear was any indication.

Peter exited the cave and Mike took a last look at the tree. _Peter’s tree._ Did the trunk bear carvings? He’d come back in better light and make out the messages or initials. One, a long downward stroke and three cross horizontal strokes caught his eye. He could almost believe it was an _E_ , as in Peter’s ex-wife, Elizabeth, although he doubted she’d ever been here.


	5. Chapter Five

“Hey, you two hicks!” Micky’s voice came from above as Peter and Mike pulled up with a jerk and a judder outside the house.

It took Mike a second to locate Micky, hanging out of a window. Even the fact that it was an attic window, up on high, and that Micky was more dangling than hanging couldn’t ruin Mike’s mellow mood, the result of a good fuck and being cuddled close to Peter. Well, squashed up with—both of them had managed to fit into the tractor’s front seat, with Mike half on Peter’s knee, which was even better.

“Don’t you know you shouldn’t station farm vehicles in the front of a house, ya bumpkins? You gotta bring ’em to the kitchen door so they can wipe their feet!” Micky continued.

“Why are you in the attic?” Mike shouted back.

“Don’t ask,” Peter muttered.

“Hey, Pete?” Micky shouted, his face one huge grin. “Would it be weird of me to wish you were a chick?”

“Yes,” both Peter and Mike replied.

“Okay…to wish you had a sister?”

“Still yes,” Peter called.

“We wouldn’t let you near her, anyways,” Mike added. “Why?”

“I said don’t ask.” Peter smacked Mike’s thigh.

“’Cause I wanna marry into this family,” came Micky’s answer.

“Oh wow.” Genuinely surprised, Mike turned to Peter. “What does your family do? Cast a spell? Or just ply people with drink?”

Peter shook his head. “He’s found the costume room.”

“There’s a room of costumes?” _Huh._ In a similar way to how Mike had traced Peter’s physical features in his other family members, he was seeing bits of Peter’s background in things that made up their life in the pad. It was fascinating. “It’s nice,” he assured Peter…just as shouting came from the hall.

“Really?” Peter questioned, helping Mike down but going in the front door first, to see John stamping about, huffing and puffing.

“When I find out who took the itinerary,” he yelled, tapping the empty space where the typed schedule had been.

“You hardly need it. It’s always the same, the twenty-third, twenty-fourth, twenty-fifth,” Peter answered, shrugging out of his coat and helping Mike out of his.

“Oh, we very much need it.” John glared at him. “How else will we know what time everyone was allotted the kitchen tonight, hmm? And on that note, do you have everything you need?”

Mike thought John had swung his glare to him with that inquiry. His hair had fallen over his forehead a little, with his shouting, and made him look more Peter-like. “Yes, sir,” Mike answered, not really understanding the query but meaning the answer as long as Peter was by his side. He glanced at Peter, who was making what Mike’s mom would’ve called cow eyes back at him.

Whatever they called it here, it made John let out a, “Hmm,” and stomp away.

“Peter?” Davy sidled out of a room, a female cousin trailing him. “I was speaking to Erica and seems we all have to make sides?”

“Take sides?” Micky thundered down the stairs. “Then I’m with Chris and Matt. They know where the hooch is, man!”

“ _Make_ sides, cloth ears. For tonight’s chowder evening? I don’t even know what that is,” Davy continued.

“Clam chowder? Oh, it’s a New York thing, a red tomato soup—”

Micky stopped because everyone else did. Every _thing_ else, like when silence hit a saloon in the old west—when the music cut off, when the dancing girls froze mid-kick…

“ _Tomato? New York? Soup?_ ” John exploded. “How _dare_ you! Clam chowder is a rich, creamy New England broth!”

Then everything erupted, with Ginia explaining the origins of the word chowder and how it had gotten to New England from France, and Uncle Bryn detailing every single ingredient of the huge vat of the stuff he and his family had brought with him, how it was briny with clams, salty with pork, and comfort in a kettle.

“And what do _you_ need comforting over?” John demanded of his brother and sister-in-law, leading to a new round of everyone talking over one another.

Cait took up a beater and struck a huge gong, making Mike stare. Pete had a similar gong!

“Everyone under the age of twenty-five is banished to anywhere but this floor,” Ginia declared in the silence.

“Except Peter,” John managed to shout over the thuds of footsteps running away.

“And Mike,” Peter retorted, stepping next to him.

John eyed them, mock-innocence on his face. “I was merely going to remind you that you, as the first-born—”

Mike had the feeling he played that card a lot.

“—agreed to deputize for me this evening. At the ceremony.”

Peter closed his eyes. “It’s so damn cheesy.”

“Oh, completely cornball,” John replied.

“I can’t get through it straight,” Peter declared.

“I never could. Well, you know where the alcohol is.” John patted his first-born on the shoulder, then stomped away.

“Yeah, the study, the kitchen, the dining room…” Peter muttered. He took Mike’s hand. “Come on. Booze nothing. We need a smoke to face this.” He led Mike down a small corridor into a smaller room. The dim lamp he turned on revealed to be some sort of linen storage space. Peter lit a joint from the pocket of the coat he still carried and slumped down into a corner, pulling Mike with him. “God, that’s better,” he said, underscoring his declaration with blown-out smoke.

“Is…” Trying to think how to ask if Peter’s father was ill, as Micky had suggested, and so coming to need Peter’s help and support more and more, Mike gave up in favor of a huge toke. He’d just inhaled when there was a sharp rap at the door, followed by a gruff, “Open up—police!” and he choked.

“Nick, you luna-nick!” Peter opened the door and pulled his brother into the cupboard. “It’s okay. He’s cool,” he assured Mike, indicating Mike should pass the joint to Nick.

Mike slumped more, tired from that the day had brought so far, and knowing there was more to come, while he listened to the two catch up. Nick was a post-grad at Carleton College, where Peter—oh, and their father—had gone and where Hilary was fond of visiting. Nick and Peter had written comedy songs and plays and pantomimes together, but Nick’s real passion was drawing, not music, and, hoping to make it his career in some way, he was managing to find outlets for it that didn’t involve neglecting his studies. Hilary…wasn’t mentioned.

“Right. Ready?” Peter asked, stirring Mike from his half-doze on the floor.

“Good and ready,” he assured Peter, standing and following the brothers to the hall, where people were assembling and togging up for the cold. He should have asked for what… “Wait. Why am I being tied to your little cousin…”

“Patrick?” Peter held up a similarly roped wrist. “Same reason I’m tied to his twin, Erin.”

“No dissention in the ranks!” John straightened from fastening Erin to Patrick, moved to Peter’s other side and beckond another girl over. “ _Seilschaft_ was good enough for your grandfather. And you’re all living proof that his method works.”

Mike traced the lines of the ropes binding the group. “Isn’t roping a team together for mountaineering?” he muttered.

“Told you. Von Trapps,” Davy whispered. “You know, ‘climb every mountain, ford every stream’…”

“I like rope parties!” Micky announced.

Mike caught another echo. Hadn’t they, at the pad, had such a thing?

“It’s not for fun.” John glowered at him, making his glare add, _you degenerate_. “It’s for safety. And it works—haven’t lost any of us in three generations.”

“Micky, do not take that as a challenge,” Mike begged. His heart sank when he saw Micky was tied to Chris and Matt…and no one else. “I’m not sure this is a good idea.”

“Or this,” he added, when most of them crowded into the Jeep. “And wait…why’s your family dressed up in old-fashioned clothes?” He couldn’t believe he’d only just noticed. Well, Micky was so often in one costume or another that it’d stopped registering, but… “The kids, I mean.” _And Micky._

“Here. This should do as a token.” Peter passed Mike a gray felt hat with a tallish, flat crown, a hat that Mike thought was probably called a stovepipe. Peter clapped one on his own head, this squatter and with a turned-up curly brim. “Wrap a muffler around your neck and we’re good to go.”

“To…” Mike stamped down hard on any thought that Micky’s attempts to build a time machine had finally borne fruit.

“To Old Mansfield,” Peter tried to explain from where he was driving, hindered a little by the rope around his wrist making his small cousin a co-driver. “The Historic District. Just off that buzzing metropolis we passed through on the way.”

“Any reason?” Mike asked. “Like, nothing good on TV?”

“Tradition,” Chris said. “Of giving the older grown-ups an evening off!”

 _I’m an older grown up. I wouldn’t mind the evening off_ , thought Mike mutinously, shaking his tethered wrist.

“Twenty-five’s the cut-off.” Peter eyed him.

“It’s fine,” Mike assured him as they parked and got out. “And when you said District…”

“Yeah, it’s basically just the village green with a few old houses around it.” Peter took out a mouth organ. “Ready, you three?” He blew a note and the other Monkees obediently hit it…as did Peter’s three brothers at the same time. “Ah. Okay…”

At least that made Peter laugh. He did look a little more relaxed now.

“There’s carol singing?” Davy guessed, indicating the town residents gathering around the big maple tree on the green, in the midst of the tablet monuments and flagpole there.

“Candlelight carol procession.” Peter nodded. “After the tree ceremony.”

For all he and his father had called it corny, or whatever, Mike enjoyed it, the speech from some guy or other about witnesses to the tradition of keeping Christmas there, and the lighting of the tree by ‘town worthies’, whoever they were. Oh, seemed Peter’s family were some of them.

“I’m guessing it goes by amount of acreage,” Micky whispered.

Mike shushed him, watching Peter help his young cousin turn a switch on and make the tree light up. It looked pretty, especially when the evening started to snow a little, dusting them all in fine white powder. The candle lanterns that were handed out looked prettier still, their little glows warm and hopeful as they swung. The old buildings ranged around the green had their doors open and their lights on and looked inviting.

“We’re going to sing outside one of these places?” he guessed, looking at the printed pages of songs he’d been handed and following the crowd over the road to the row of historical buildings.

“Inside. And not just one. Most of them.”

Mike thought Peter was joking, but no. The buildings were all kept open, and visitors encouraged, especially if they signed the guest books. Some committee or other was trying to get the District listed on the National Register of Historic Places, for the architectural significance of the houses, Nick explained. Oh, and they’d be eligible for some grant or other if people showed their interest in the buildings—as proven by full visitors’ books. Gingerbread cookies lured callers into the old fire station, but Mike thought he would have gone inside to look around anyway.

“I always liked this place.” Peter indicated the pole, and the upper half-floor landing that led into a room full of beds. “I always wanted to live somewhere like this.”

They moved outside to sing before Mike could tell him that he…sorta did.

“Talk about multi-tasking,” Micky commented in the town hall, that had served as courtroom and police station, the first library and meeting hall, and where plays had also been performed. “Do you think one guy hadda do all that?”

“I think the place served those purposes at different times,” Mike said.

“Like, mornings, courtroom, afternoons, quick meeting, then a play in the evening? Maybe that’s where Pete’s dad got the idea for his itinerary from!”

Mike gave in and tried to keep the spiced wine at the tavern, now a store, away from the kids. _And Micky._ Hilary joined them, and Mike saw what she’d meant about being tone deaf. Even someone passing her a bucket from the store’s supply, to carry a tune in, didn’t stop her joining in, though, which Mike admired. He wondered if there were enough inhabitants in the town to make having a store viable.

“Oh, Dad reckons people just come here to chinwag and drink,” Nick replied, when Mike asked him. “He calls the place the News and Booze store! We used to joke about that name. Like, saying if it sold footwear and chimneys, it’d be called Shoes and Flues!”

Mike laughed. “Or if it sold shades of paint and English toilets… Hues and Loos?”

“Good one! And what about beers and church seats?”

“Gimme a minute,” Mike begged Nick. “Got it. Brews and Pews!” He saw one was expected of him. “Okay. If it sold, erm, marsupials and female sheep. No? Roos and Ewes. Sorry!”

Nick groaned but then laughed. “So, you and Peter,” he said.

Mike took a cautious look around. Patrick was right at the end of the long length of rope, and the small gathering was noisy, but it paid to be cautious. _Talking of…_ “Uh-huh?” he replied, his tone set to cagey.

“’S’okay,” Nick’s accent sounded just like Peter’s. “We used to share a room.”

“And…you’re trying to find out if we share one now?”

“I think you share a bed. For what it’s worth, I’m cool with it, and I know it’s none of my business.”

“Huh.” _Interesting._ They headed out to swell the ranks of the singers. “What made you… I mean…”

“Oh, you’re his type.” Nick indicated Mike. “Tall, slim, kinda wiry, wavy dark hair…”

“Mike!” Peter grabbed him. “This next needs a baritenor, and it’s exactly in your tessitura!”

“How about a lyric tenor with a bright, full timbre?” asked a male voice and Peter span around, pulling several small cousins with him.

“ _Ezra!_ ” he yelled in the guy’s face and hugged him tight. Hugged the tall, slim guy with the curly dark hair, who hugged him back, both of them talking at once, in that telegraphese that signalled close understanding. Oh, as did the way tall, slim dark-haired new guy stroked Peter’s face. Or Peter cupped his.

Mike took a deep breath. He’d made a bit of a scene—and a bit of a fool of himself—earlier over someone from Peter’s past, and that had turned out to be not what he’d thought. Peter had grown up here and must have a zillion old friends. It wasn’t as though the whole town was in lust with him, for Christ’s sake. Mike must have laughed out loud, because Peter looked over, his face inquiring.

“Oh, nothing.” Mike stepped close. Ezra, wasn’t it, was being swept off by a group, but looking over his shoulder. “I guess he’s what, some old school friend? You used to crash parties and chase chicks together?”

“Not exactly.” Peter looked him square in the eyes. “Ezra’s an ex.”

“What, you dated? Like…Hilary and you dated?” Mike reached for any life preserver he could. “Like, went out for milkshakes or sodas, went to the movies?”

“Again, not exactly.” Peter took his hand this time, his voice quiet but firm. “We were close. As in _intimate_ , Michael. Emotionally…and physically. I’m just going to say this plainly, with no ambiguity and no drama. He and I…well, Ezra was my first.”


	6. Chapter Six

“Musical.” From the corner of one eye, Mike watched Ezra la-la-laing a phrase from a page someone was holding, harmonizing with the couple who’d swept him off and who wanted him to join in, it seemed.

“Huh?”

“Musical. Nick forgot to add it to the list.” Tall, slim, wiry, wavy dark hair…and musical. Funny, Peter liked that in his chicks, but Mike had never wondered if he liked it in his guys too. Had never thought much about other guys Peter must’ve had. _Had_ had. He’d assumed he was the first. No—wanted to believe he was, despite evidence against it. But being confronted with the reality was…what? A kick up the backside, was the nearest Mike could get to it. In that it hurt, and he felt jolted, off balance—

“You’re…not making much sense.” Peter shifted to accommodate his cousin climbing him, then stumbled when she jumped the rest of the way into his arms for a carry. “I had planned to tell you, later.”

“With no melodrama. With clarity, or whatever it was you said.” Mike nodded, as if they were both being reasonable, but the movement of his head and neck was tight and reluctant and it hurt.

“I didn’t think he’d be back in town, or if he was, here for this. We don’t keep in touch to that extent. _Michael_.”

He looked into Peter’s eyes at that last word. Into the eyes of the man he loved, seeing them a dark brown in the awkward light.

“Please believe me, and please believe it makes no difference to us.”

“To MichaelandPeter us?”

“ _Yes._ ”

It was Michael’s turn to shift and almost stumble when Erin suddenly threw herself over and horizontal between them, making Mike take her feet and Peter support her head and shoulders. _Corpsing_ was her new favorite word, and her new favorite game.

“Oh no, Erin’s dead,” lamented Pete automatically, making the girl shake with laughter but not open her eyes or uncross her arms from over her chest. “Michael, I dealt with discovering about you and J, and that was a lot more recent.”

“Recent?” As in, Peter had discovered it recently? No, that couldn’t be right—it had come out in November. So Peter must mean that Michael had hooked up with J more recently than Peter had been with Ezra? “When did you split up?” He couldn’t stop himself asking, despite the toing and froing of people around them, of Peter’s family and friends. “I mean, you were a couple…” _And now you’re not._

“High school!” Peter said, his eyes and tone lightening. “I know this is…whatever it is, but we can’t talk about it now.”

No, not with the younger kids getting tired and fractious and needing attention and comforting. And not with the chorus assembling to sing another carol. And really not when they were here, now, like this, and the past was in the past, and they were MikeandPeter in the present, and hopefully in the future, if Mike didn’t torpedo this—as he had so much else, as he tried to not want to _this_ —before it could, might, may, hurt him, and in the doing so, _making_ it hurt him, and confirming his stupid view, his wrong mindset of things.

No, he knew better than that. _Was_ better than that. Okay, was working to be better than that. “Peter.” Mike grabbed at his elbow. “What you said earlier, me trying…you admiring…”

Peter gave a half-grin at the rhyme.

“Well, I am,” Mike managed to whisper as they joined the group.

Peter pressed against him, rubbing into him. “And I don’t just _admire_ you for it.” He twisted his head around, just slightly, but enough. “I fucken love you for it. That and much more.”

He pressed a little harder, and Mike knew, if he could have seen Peter’s face at that moment, that it would have been displaying that wicked grin which was a step beyond and at least two to the side of his normal sunny, dimpled smile. Erin, coming back to life, knocked Peter’s costume hat from his head, and Matt, Mike thought, caught it and stuck it on his own.

While Mike loved the look of Peter’s shining blond hair catching the warm orange of the lamps and the occasional red or green of a Christmas light, Peter must be cold. “Hey, one second…” Mike tugged his own green wool cap from his pocket and smoothed it onto Peter’s head before Peter could search for his own and put that on. Put on the dark knitted cap that was very similar to the one Ezra had on.

Mike got through the carol, one he didn’t know, about silver lamps. He knew he was watching Ezra, and listening to how well his warm tenor blended into the group, blended with Peter’s natural baritone and sounded against Mike’s own darker-than-tenor tone. The carol was almost hymn-like, and silence greeted its last line, about all being at peace on this night so fair, for a second before applause sounded.

“Wouldn’t have thought you’d be singing this sort of thing!” commented an older guy, and Mike saw the comment was addressed to Ezra.

“Where d’you think the manger throne you were just singing about was located?” he inquired, looking around the group with a _well? duh!_ expression, until people laughed. So. A good singer, witty—even if Mike didn’t get the joke— and he dealt well with the cold too, Mike saw, only shivering a little as the group set off across the road, back to the green.

“Ezra, Michael.” Peter looked from one to another as he made the introductions.

Was he expecting them to shake hands? Mike gave a casual nod. “Hey. You feeling the chill?” he asked, gazing up and down the old overcoat Ezra was wearing.

“A bit, yep. Well, you’ve got my sheepskin!” Ezra replied, pointing at the coat Mike was wearing, and laughing.

“Teach you to leave it lying around. Finders, keepers,” Peter commented, as casual-cruel to the guy as he was to his brothers, before Mike could even react, much less rip off the coat and hand it over.

“Mike?”

He turned to Micky, who was looking from him to Ezra. Mike smelled mulled wine on Micky’s breath when Micky pulled him aside to whisper, “Is he…your looky-like? Because you’re the only one of us four who don’t got one so far.”

“Don’t be silly.” As well as Micky needing the reassurance, doubles being an issue that freaked him out, Mike didn’t want…to be a copy.

“Like Peter with that Chase guy.” Micky nodded, catching his thought.

Yeah…okay. Chase, a guy from Mike’s past, had been tall but slightly shorter than Mike, toned from physical exercise, and blond with brown eyes. “But…” _Damn._ He hoped Micky couldn’t complete that, add the _he wasn’t an ex_ to make a complete sentence. He tried to catch what people were saying to Ezra. No—asking. Something about a solo. _Really?_ Mike planted his feet shoulder-width apart to brace himself against the feelings breaking over him…and what he was going to do to shore himself up.

“You know what? Things are winding down.” And thank God—the younger kids were exhausted. Mike raised his voice to make it carry over the entire huddled mass of people gathered at the lit-up tree. “And I think we should say thank you to all these good townsfolk for their kind hospitality, their goodness in welcoming strangers into their midst, in their godliness in following an example from the good book.” Okay, there was laying it on thick and there was _slathering_. But…

He beckoned Davy over, and indicated the four of them. “We’re the Monkees, and making music is what we do, and what we’d love to do for you.” He ignored the looks his fellow bandmembers gave him.

“Where’s your guitars?” piped up Patrick. “I can make the drums noises.”

“We don’t need instruments. We got one song that doesn’t need them, right, guys?” They understood, of course. “And it’s a song very appropriate for this time of year.” Mike didn’t wait any longer, just took a candle and handed it to Micky. Peter leaned over to light it and Mike launched into the first “ _Ríu, ríu, chíu, la guarda ribera,_ ” and Peter, not missing a beat, joined in with him for the next line, “ _Dios guardó el lobo de nuestra cordera_ ,” as did the other two to repeat it, then sing the first line again, all acapella.

Once started, they continued, and it was as perfect as it had ever been, the strength of their harmonizing, the interplay of their voices as they sung in an almost call-and-response, almost a round, almost a canon, and then when Micky began the first verse and his pure, clear voice soared into the night… The hairs on the back of Mike’s neck stood on end. Everything, everyone, even the whining children, hushed and no one moved right until the end of the final last, long syllable, which was when they all leaned in to blow out the candle.

Silence and stillness reigned a beat or two longer, and Mike was just starting to worry, when applause and cheers burst out, ringing to the stars and splitting the night. Ezra was one of the first to clap, and his voice one of the loudest in his exclamations and praise. He didn’t even have to say there was no way he could follow that—any idea that had been floated of him being asked to perform a solo had evaporated. Mike even fancied he could see it drifting into the ether with the smoke from the candle Micky had held.

“All right, there, Jerry Lee?” Davy muttered, as they wrangled most of the cousins into the Jeep a few minutes later. “S’pose we should just be glad you didn’t set fire to the tree and make us keep singing as it burned to the ground.” He grunted at the kick Mike landed to his ass. There was something to be said for the casual, lazy ruthlessness with which Peter and his brothers treated one another. That it was catching, for one thing.

“Wait!” Mike yelped when they were in the vehicle and Peter started the engine. “We oughta do a roll call. See if anyone’s missing?”

“Don’t think we lost anyone.” Peter eyed the back seat via the driving mirror and started off.

“We lost three,” Davy murmured.

True—Micky plus Peter’s younger brothers. “Well, it’s not one.” Mike knew what he meant. And he could see them running up behind, waving like lunatics…the star from the top of the village green tree in Micky’s hand…and still alight. “Mick’s resourceful. He’ll get them back,” Mike judged.

And he was right: the three even arrived ahead of them and the other vehicle, so the whole mass tumbled into the hall together.

“The record still stands?” inquired John, one the few grown-up adults still up and about, as he undid the knots and released them from the safety rope.

Peter nodded, standing flat against the wall as most of the younger ones ran for the bathroom.

“And there’s nothing I’m likely to read about in the _Courant_?”

“No…”

Micky whipped the still-glowing star out of sight as Peter answered.

“Good, good. Well, up bright and early. Remember you—”

“Said I’d deputize. Yeah, yeah. Jesus,” Peter moaned when his father ambled off. “I’ll need a vacation after this holiday.”

Mike was still trying to work that out when they drifted into the kitchen, for the serve-yourself chowder dinner. Supper, now, he supposed, taking in the array of side dishes on top of the range, from mini corns on the cobs to a dish of something green topped with something crunchy, to what looked like a French bread thing covered in cheese. “Wait, if everyone brought or made something to go with it…”

“Here’s our homemade oyster crackers.” Peter shook the rustic basket full of small, puffy twists of bread.

“Homemade…as in Pop’s?” Mike shook his head at Peter’s, what was it, sophistry? “Mick, you okay?”

“The chowder looks like my Kleenex when I had that chest cold.” Micky’s voice came small and he replaced the lid on the tureen. Then his eyes brightened. “No one else wants the French fries, right?” He’d covered the entire platter in ketchup before he’d finished speaking.

“You okay?” Peter asked, pouring hot peppermint something from a kettle into a thermos.

Mike nodded. “Tired,” he admitted.

“I hear that.” Peter turned to where Davy was showing people how to make “chip butties” by stuffing the dripping-with-ketchup fries inside buttered cloverleaf rolls. “Davy, Inge made you some English things so you don’t get homesick. Devils on horseback?”

“What…” Mike closed his eyes. “I don’t want to know, do I.”

“Not unless you’re into stuffed prunes wrapped in bacon and almost incinerated?” came Peter’s assessment of the dish he saw briefly in the few seconds between Davy uncovering it and running off with it, squealing in joy and followed by most of those present. He finished forking up the goat’s cheese salad and nodded to Mike to stuff the last of the corn bread in his mouth. “Come on. While it’s quiet. Before anything else happens.”

Muttering that Peter just had to jinx it, didn’t he, Mike followed him…outside again? “Tell me we’re not sleeping in the car,” he groaned, following the hurricane lantern swinging in Peter’s hand.

“We’re not sleeping in the car?”

“Yeah, but is it true?” Mike asked. He hadn’t thought to ask about sleeping arrangements, and they hadn’t been shown to a room. Well, not likely they would be. He couldn’t imagine in his wildest dreams any parents, no matter how liberal they might pride themselves on being, encouraging their son to shack up with another guy under the parental roof. No, more like they’d banish the pair of them—

“To a barn?” Mike stared at what he could make out of the structure, then laughed. “You said you were brought up in a barn, right? Well, appropriate for December, I guess.”

“Like the song you made us sing?” Peter shot him a sly glance. Mike had guessed there’d be a reckoning for that. Peter wasn’t stupid. “And this is so much more than a barn,” Peter assured him, ushering him in and through to a room off it. This was stone, instead of the wood Mike had expected, and warmer than he’d have imagined. Peter closed the door after them.

“Underfloor heating.” Peter read his face. “And there’s plenty of hot water.”

“Hot…” Mike saw what looked like a bath when Peter set the lantern down on one side of it and turned on the taps. Hot water did indeed gush out. Peter lit a couple of candles and Mike understood what the room, or space was. He could hardly speak for laughing. “Bath my ass!”

“We will,” Peter promised.

“In this sheep dip?” Mike pointed down into the hole, or dip, in the floor.

“Shows what you know—it was for cows! But it’s clean, and a bath is a bath—”

“Is a bath,” Mike agreed, stripping off as Peter started to do, and dipping a toe in. “And yeah, I need to soak my muscles. I’m sore. Just as you…knew I would be.”

“So get in. And you know the best thing about a cow dip?”

Mike shook his head, grabbing the towels and their wash bags he saw had been left in there, to have ready, before stepping in.

“It fits two.” Peter’s smile looked angelic in the soft light as he went to shuck his sweater, preparatory to following Mike down into the water.


	7. Chapter Seven

“Not so fast there, shotgun.”

Mike’s command stopped Peter, and he dropped his hands from the hem of his pullover. “Huh?”

“Looks like someone forgot the rules,” Mike continued, sinking down into the still-filling water with a half-grunt of satisfaction. He looked more relaxed within a few seconds, which enchanted Peter.

“The… _Oh!_ ”

“’S’right. You remember. Whenever we’re getting into water together, the first to undress wins the right…”

“To have the other go slow—”

“—and put on a show.” Mike shrugged, making a slosh. “Hey, I don’t make the rules, babe.”

Peter…rather thought he had come up with this one, though.

“I just love enforcin’ ’em.” Mike gestured for Peter to continue.

He looked like someone who’d gotten an unexpected treat, and Peter loved that expression on Mile’s face. Loved that he was the cause of it. “Pity there’s no music,” he said, pulling off his sweater slowly, like Luce and Brandi at _All Girls, All Day_ off Crescent had shown them when they’d given the four of them a masterclass a couple of years back. It’d been an…interesting place to hang out, in the early days.

“You’re the music,” Mike husked, following Peter’s movements as he stripped off his undershirt. He sat up a little to watch Peter climb out of his pants. “That’s three states now. I can say you got the best ass in three states now, not just two.”

“Texas, California and now Connecticut.” Peter got it. “Thanks. And when we go to New York…” He thought he had an idea of when…and it’d be sooner rather than later. He was sure Mike would agree. Once he knew…

“You got soap?” Mike asked as Peter went to step down into the water.

“Oh, I do actually. Got it earlier…” Peter hunted for the prettily wrapped square he’d taken from under the tree earlier.

“ _Peter!_ ” Mike was scandalized.

“It’s mine!” Peter showed him the gift label.

“How d’you know what it is?”

Oh yeah. Mike wasn’t from such a big family, one with ingrained habits and patterns. He must be a little overwhelmed here. “Whoever gets my name in the family Christmas lucky dip present exchange knows me to get me this soap.” He finished peeling open the paper in such a way that he’d be able to reseal it and so replace it in the heap, then switched on the row of bubble lights he’d had strung along the wall earlier. Finally he stepped into the water.

“The same one?” Mike shifted to make room, grinning at Peter’s long moan of relief on sitting in the hot water.

“Soap? Yeah. Milled locally. French milled, actually.” Peter handed it over and, opposite Mike, slid low to soak fully. He settled their legs around the other’s hips.

“Ooh la la.”

“Yes, I’m fancy.” He hefted his torso up, lifted Mike’s foot, and bit the big toe in retaliation, enduring the wave of water Mike’s attempt to roll free sent his way.

“Yeah, you are.” It was clear it was a compliment. Mike sniffed the soap first in its dry state, then after he’d wetted it, and then his arm after he’d rubbed it on there. “So that’s why you always have this for the first month or so of the year!”

“Then it’s back to the communal bar.” It struck Peter that their far less fancy and more utilitarian household soap was also lemon, one of the scents in his preferred bar. Mike was in charge of the shopping—he’d tried to replicate something that Peter liked! For how long? Peter tried to recall… A goodly while, was the best he could do. His heart clenched, then swelled. He lifted Mike’s feet into his lap and washed them in silent thanks, rubbing his thumbs into the pressure points too, the latter mainly to make Mike moan. Peter liked the sound.

“That’s…nice.”

“ _This_ is nice,” Peter answered Mike, indicating the intimate room, the soft lights, them.

“Yeah, No argument there, babe. I always appreciate having a bit of time on our own, together.”

And yet, even though they were now a couple, neither of them had ever once broached the idea of getting a place together, for just the two of them. And never would, Peter didn’t think. The four of them, and the two of them…that was how it worked. How it was. He couldn’t see it being any other way, and betted Michael couldn’t either.

“Where are they?”

Peter had long stopped even noticing the way they all jumped into one another’s thoughts. “The bedrooms are given over to grown-up adults, and the kids all sleep in the attic. It’s…hell,” he finished, rejecting _noisy_ and even _chaotic_.

Mike’s grin said he knew how much the other two would like it. “So twenty-five means you’re a grown-up adult,” he mused. “Is it just the age, makes the cut-off?”

“Oh, Father’s theory—yes, he has a few, on _every_ subject—is that it’s when you find yourself wanting a drink, say, to relax, or during a trying episode, and not, and I quote, ‘a reefer cigarette’.” Peter rubbed soap onto his hands to wash Mike’s long legs. “Oh, and he also calls them ‘jazz cigarettes’.” He loved the way Mike laughed at that. “What? He was young once.”

“In the twenties. In New Orleans, apparently,” Mike commented.

“Michael, do you want to talk? About…earlier?” Peter didn’t want to spoil this languid, water-smooth and water-warm peace, but even this shed was not a good room for an elephant to go unaddressed in. “We can, if you feel the need. Although I don’t think there is. I love you. You know that,” he added shamelessly.

“Maybe… in a bit. I’m enjoying this,” Mike replied. “I think…all I wanna say about it right now is stuff that you know, like that my first instinct was to react negatively, but my second was to correct that. Correct myself, I guess I mean.” His shrug made a mini wavelet ripple along to Peter. “I’ll likely have more to say—deeper stuff, I think I mean, when I’ve, how do you call it? Squirreled it away for a while.”

Peter was so pleased at Mike’s progress that he flopped himself forward and turned to sit in his lap. Mike wrapped his arms and legs around him within seconds, as Peter had expected.

“Teaching me how to steer?” Mike murmured, taking hold of a certain part of Peter’s anatomy and making Peter laugh as he recalled earlier, them on the sled.

“Oh, you know what you’re doing in that regard,” he told Mike, feeling Mike’s answering laugh against his back. Peter tilted his head back into the crook of Mike’s, and to rub his face on Mike’s, both of them stealing kisses.

They passed the soap back and forth, lazily washing the parts of the other that they could reach, and exchanging equally lazy but heartfelt drips of conversation.

“Missed you last Christmas,” Mike confessed. “You were gone a while.”

“You…had Micky,” Peter replied. He’d learned that during the Micky Day revelations, in November. “Over your birthday, I mean.”

“Yeahhh. You choose that verb deliberately there, shotgun?”

Peter didn’t know if he had or hadn’t. He felt Mike waiting, hesitating: did he think Peter wanted or needed to talk more about that, about Mike and Micky? _You have history with him_ , he’d said to Mike, months before he’d known…exactly what it was. “People have pasts,” he finally said. “I like to live in the present.”

“And hope for a good future,” Mike whispered, pulling Peter closer, to lie on top of him, and wrapping himself around him. Peter almost wished they were in the dark, with the only light that coming in through the high windows and the skylight above. He was curious to see how the snow-whitened, moon-and-star-lightened night looked reflected on the barely moving water. Maybe next time.

Eventually it was time—more than—to get out. Mike dried and dressed quickly, not used to cold air, and took a look around the shed while Peter was still rummaging for his night stuff.

“I can see how you could actually live in this place,” Mike commented, indicating the toilet and shower stalls, and the urinal and sink.

“Well, sleep, at least. Nick and I used to camp out here in the summer, try and get away from the others.” Peter made sure the twinkle lights were off and the water drained, and ushered him through into the barn, where he checked the thickness and firmness of the straw piled up around the furnace in the middle. “Meet the family octopus,” he said to Mike, indicating the black multi-tubed boiler, fenced off for safety as it had always been. The rails around it weren’t that high—the thermos and plate of goodies on top of it to keep warm could easily be reached.

“And we just…” Mike stopped unrolling the first sleeping bag to stand and turn at the noise. “Mick? Davy? Thought you were sleeping in the attic?” he demanded when the other two came in, cases in hands and sleeping bags under arms and slightly traumatized expressions on their faces.

“It’s a nuthouse up there!” Micky complained, dropping his case and throwing his sleeping bag down on one side of the boiler’s fenced-off square. “No one’s even _trying_ to go to sleep, and Matt’s keeping them all stirred up. I’m worn-out.”

“And that Chris?” Davy followed suit, selecting an adjacent side of the square. “I know he’s your brother, Peter, but he’s a non-stop hound dog—nothing but chasing birds, plotting how to chase birds…it’s relentless.”

“Lemme guess.” Mike turned to Peter after a few stunned moments. “The younger ones’d do this to you whenever you were hoping for a getaway, right? And can I just say, Mick and Davy, does the pot recognize its own kettle’s reflection in a stream?”

Peter joined in the chorus of _huhs?_ and _whats?_ that greeted this. “Well, the bathroom’s through there.” He pointed, for the new arrivals’ benefit. “There might be some hot water left…”

“I need a shower.” Davy grabbed his toiletries bag. “Mick, come and watch my back.”

“Wash your back? Gee, we’re close and all, but I dunno…” Micky answered, frowning.

“ _Watch_ , you deaf sod. Those little monsters are playing War—it’s all surprise attacks,” Davy explained to Peter and Mike. “We best go in together, one keeping guard?”

“Take a flashlight!” Mike called after them. “And look out for the huge hole!”

“In the floor,” Peter added, just to clarify.

No sound of either percussionist falling into a dip came, and their absence gave Peter and Mike a couple minutes’ peace at least, during which they set out their sleeping bags at right angles around the two unoccupied sides of the boiler, their heads facing. Oh, and Peter got to see the face Mike made when he discovered the hot peppermint drink he took a big mouthful of wasn’t tea, but schnapps.

“Well, guess I’ll be warm through,” he said, brushing down the splattered front of his robe.

“Right to the bone,” Peter agreed. “I supposed we’d better leave a pastry for Micky…” He blinked when Micky re-emerged from the wash shed, his arms full of—

“Tell me I’m not that drunk. That firstly Micky’s holding a rabbit and secondly that he’s not shrunk,” Mike begged.

Peter understood Mike’s confusion—the creature Micky carried hung from his bent elbow down past his knees. “I guess it’s a giant rabbit?”

“Pete! He’s so great! Can I pet him?” Micky begged.

“I…never saw it before in my life,” Peter replied. “Maybe he belongs to a neighbor?”

“Oh, but he’ll keep me warm in my sleeping bag all night!” Micky begged.

“Last thing we need around here is a half-wild creature with rough, matted hair peeing where it wants all night and probably crapping in a corner come morning.” Davy emerged from the shed and his slight pause told Peter he hadn’t finished his speech— “That cute rabbit can stay though.”

In the storm that followed this, the rabbit hopped off. Peter made sure the barn door was latched and came back, standing over Mike to get his attention before removing his robe. “Speaking of rabbits…” He relished Mike’s strangled groan on seeing Peter in his bunny pjs. “What? These are warmer,” he claimed, sliding into his sleeping bag, the thermos clutched in his arms for warmth. Not his fault if no one else had one.

“Peter…” Davy’s voice came from where he was wriggling into his bag. “I understand about Stacia, but Helen—”

“Is also forbidden.” Peter made sure the hurricane lamp was switched off.

“Oh, okay. Elsa—”

“ _Verboten_.”

Davy had only muttered another syllable, of a name Peter didn’t even recognize, when his voice cut off and his breathing evened out.

“One down…” Mike muttered.

“Ezra,” Micky started.

“Not your type,” Peter replied. “You like blondes, remember?”

“No, I didn’t mean…”

Peter could feel Micky thinking.

“I meant, him and you…”

“Micky, give your brain a rest, yeah?” Mike begged. “Hey, remember when I used to pay you to keep quiet so I could get to sleep?”

Peter hadn’t known that, but found it credible. And kind of sweet. He held eye contact with Mike as silence descended. Mike unzipped his sleeping bag and Peter did the same to his, inching himself over the straw to where Mike lay just around the next corner. Mike moved to make room for Peter next to him and they zipped their bags together, their movements practiced.

“You hadda wear the bunny suit, didn’t you?” Mike murmured, sliding his arms around him.

“I did,” Peter agreed, burrowing into Mike’s neck, eager to inhale his scent mixed with Peter’s soap. “Even though it’s a bit raggedy now. Well, I know how much you like it.”

“No, I like you in it,” Mike corrected.

“And…out of it?” A slight noise made Peter stop. “Micky? Are you awake?”

“Yes,” came back, after a long pause, Micky evidently debating his options and deciding honestly was the best policy…if he didn’t want to face retribution.

“Okay…well, you know the routine.” Now Peter sat, despite the cold, to make sure Micky put on the eye mask and pushed in the ear plugs. “Good. Now turn around.” Peter illustrated the gesture with a circular movement of a finger, and Mike sat too, to watch Micky lie and roll to face the boiler.

“Now, where were we?” Mike murmured, pulling Peter down with him. “Oh, well, yeah—seems this squirrel’s getting quicker. I just want to add to what I said about my reactions to learning about you and…”

“Ezra.” Mike hadn’t said the name yet.

“Yeah. My next one is to say I’ll rise above it, but, really, I got no right to think like that, like I’m doing you a favor in overlooking it. You said, people have pasts. And high school? That’s _ancient_ past, man!”

“Yesss…high school’s when we realized we couldn’t ever be serious. When we stopped dating. Almost as soon as we began.” Peter waited.

“And?” Mike searched his face.

“So we became casual. Like, say, if we happened to be back here at the same time.”

“As in— No. I’m mis—”

“As in, there's not much else to do in a small town.” Peter tried for lightness.

“When—” Mike coughed. “When was—” He took a breath and changed direction, perhaps for more reasons than he could articulate. “What…do you expect me to do now?” he asked.

Peter lay on his back and folded an arm behind his head. He strayed the other down to his crotch, slipping his fingers in between the poppers of his suit, giving Mike something else to think about. “You could give me really long, really slow head,” came his wicked suggestion.


	8. Chapter Eight

“ _What?_ I could…what?”

It was interesting, watching Mike’s face in the glow of the flashlight Peter had positioned, seeing it switch in the blink of an eye from raw reaction to some unexpected, unwanted new knowledge, to storing away that bitter kernel of information, to processing a new scenario. Peter unzipped one side of the sleeping bag to give them both more room. There was enough heat being generated, one way or another, for them not to need the closed space.

“You heard me.” Peter flicked open one of the poppers on his all-in-one, the click loud.

“And why in the world would I do that?” Mike pressed closer.

Peter smoothed out any grin he might have given on either turning Mike’s mind to other matters or in getting his own way, as usual. Neither one of those things was _completely_ true yet. After a little worrying away at the fact he’d just learned—that Peter had had a hook-up buddy until…recently—Mike would want to return to it, but in private, when there was no risk of the other two hearing. Peter was as sure Mike would do that as he was of always being able to get his own way with him.

“Because…” Peter wriggled, rejecting, _I’m wearing the_ _bunny all-in-one, and I’m saying please_ , ‘I’m exactly in the mood for you to go down on me. I really want your mouth on me. Pleasuring me.” He left the kicker, the _and because you want to_ unspoken, too.

The unflinching way Mike held Peter’s gaze said he’d nevertheless caught the last remark…and that it was true, that Mike did want to do that if not _for_ then _to_ Peter, to assert his easy mastery over Peter’s body, Peter’s pleasure. _Whatever you need, babe._ Mike hadn’t spoke, but his often-voiced promise to Peter hung thick and smoky in the air. Only, Peter understood it went both ways, too.

Peter was the first to drop eye contact, which made Mike give that crooked and crooked-toothed grin Peter adored, and lean in to take Peter’s hand from his crotch. Mike curved it upward, bending it at the elbow and folding it behind Peter’s head, to match the other.

“Well, well. Seems I’m charge now,” Mike breathed in Peter’s ear, and the soft prickle of his stubble against Peter’s neck made his cock fill. Mike’s hands, left in place on Peter’s elbows, stopped Peter writhing. Mike leaned in a little more, to undo the zip on the other side of the sleeping bag, uncovering Peter completely. “Don’t fret about the chill. I’ll keep you warm,” he promised.

Mike made his slow way down the front of Peter’s body, unsnapping each fastener he came to and folding the edges of Peter’s suit to each side, leaving him exposed. A laugh escaped Peter. “So I’m not the only one who unwraps presents early.”

Mike paused and sat back a little, stroking his palm down Peter’s face. “You’re my best present ever,” he whispered. He returned to his work, soon reaching the last button, on Peter’s crotch. Peter thought Mike was bending low to deal with the material there, and so the swiftness with which Mike pinned his hips and tongued the base of his cock had Peter arching upward in surprise. And when Mike slowly dragged his tongue up its length, Peter sank back down again, his breath stolen.

It didn’t take him long to understand that Mike was playing with him, teasing him, taking his own sweet time in licking long stripes up his dick and shorter, harder swipes across the head, then back down again when Peter’s body seized up. “Mi— _eep_!” Peter’s attempt at a protest was turned into a squeal when Mike ducked lower and tongued Peter’s balls.

Again, he took his time and his clever, wicked play there had Peter’s sighs turning to gasps, then a long moan. He became aware Mike had stopped. Maybe to give him a respite? Peter needed one. Mike sat back and locked eyes with him.

“You look…”

“What?” _Dazed? Blissed-out?_

“Beautiful. Er.” Mike pressed in a little, showing Peter how the sight affected him. He rested his head on Peter’s lower stomach, letting the haze of arousal thicken again.

Which was when Peter noticed Micky was looking. Well, sitting up and staring, eyes as round and huge as saucers, his eye mask-blindfold nowhere to be seen. “ _Micky!_ ” Peter mouthed, frowning, jerking his head to indicate Micky should lie down again.

“ _Please?_ ” Micky mouthed back. He brought his hands up close to his breastbone and clasped them together, palms facing. “ _It_ is _Christmas._ ”

Peter shrugged, rolled his eyes and shook his head, the latter more in resignation than denial. “ _Okay,_ ” he mouthed.

“What?” Mike murmured, raising his head to Peter. “Got something you wanna say there, shotgun? Or ask?”

“Or beg?” Peter wasn’t too proud. “Yes. I do. Suck me. _Please._ ”

He felt Mike’s grin against his bellybutton, before Mike slipped lower, to steady Peter by one hip before wrapping his free hand around his base of his cock. And if Peter had thought _that_ slow, Mike’s pace in sliding his lips down Peter’s dick was glacial. He didn’t stop until he’d taken Peter deep and his nose was buried in Peter’s curls of pubic hair—which was when he swallowed. Peter found one arm uncurling from where Mike had placed it and swinging wildly to his side. He had a brief moment of incomprehension at the texture his hand met, but then his fingers burrowed into the straw and scrunched, squeezing a fat, tight palmful.

Mike’s hold on his hip kept Peter from bucking forward, and Peter’s efforts to be quiet had a strangled noise escaping him. “ _Fuck,_ ” he breathed, knowing his reactions to the things Mike did to him pushed Mike higher too. Mike worked him harder, not stopping even when a long shudder racked Peter’s frame from head to toe, closing his eyes for him. But perhaps it was what made Mike loosen his hold on Peter’s hip, tacitly encouraging Peter to fuck his mouth.

Peter forced his eyes open—he wanted to see Mike, to know if he was as lost in the pleasure he was bringing as Peter was. He thrust, and the skilled way Mike received him, tightened around him, forced a moan from Peter’s chest. “You’re too fucking good,” he ground out. “Gonna come,” He was close and Mike sucking harder and pressing into the soft skin behind Peter’s balls had him falling apart with a harsh cry. His balls tightened and he pulsed in Mike’s mouth.

Mike’s swallowing sent ripples around and up Peter’s dick, prolonging his climax to the point it throbbed hard and sharp, forcing Peter to work his hands into Mike’s hair and tug, to get him to stop. He had to resort to signals—he couldn’t get his voice under control. Mike took pity on him and pulled free, to rest his cheek in the hollow of Peter’s stomach, making him wriggle and emit a rusty-sounding half-laugh.

Something made Peter raise his head and shoulders, to see Micky still staring, even wider-eyed, and with a look of awe and slight disbelief in them. He was not only silent, but looking like he wouldn’t be speaking for a good long while. _Halleluiah_ , Peter thought, easing flat again as Micky did. “It’s a Christmas miracle.” He must have said that out loud—way down his body, Mike laughed. Peter was just about to start reciprocating, wanting to get Mike off too, when he fell asleep.

He half-awoke, later, to some sort of movement under him and a half-realized giggle underscored his half-formed thought about the earth moving for him, but he wasn’t alert enough for either reaction. Even the hand shaking his shoulder couldn’t stir him fully, but the hand over his mouth, gagging him, did.

“Shhh,” came a voice in his ear, but from behind him. Mike’s voice, and Mike’s hand. Peter would have known both anywhere. “You don’t wanna wake the others now, do you.” Peter sucked as many fingers as he could into his mouth, feeling Mike harden against his ass. His bare ass—Mike must have undone the buttons on the flap of the suit that covered the wearer’s rear end. _Peter’s_ rear end.

A quick glance around told Peter he was back in his original spot in front of the boiler, not at its right side, the place Mike had chosen for his, and where Peter had slept. Oh, Mike had _dragged_ him back—to opposite Micky. Peter mentally wished the curly-haired freak good luck on being able to spy on them now, through a large square of black metal. Wait. Did that mean Mike—

“Gonna take this nice and slow…” Mike crooned, knocking stray thoughts from Peter’s head with the way he spooned him. “…until I can’t.”

“I owe you,” Peter whispered, remembering that he’d fallen asleep before Mike had got off. He shifted for Mike to curl a hand around him, checking his readiness.

“It’s not about that.” Mike spoke at the same time as he rolled Peter onto his front and nudged his thighs wide with his knees. The cool, wet finger he slid from Peter’s balls to his hole made Peter jump, and he breathed out hard as the slow push of Mike’s finger inside him. Peter got his forearms under him and his hands and knees as flat as he could in the straw beneath him and rose a little. His breath sawed out of him on a gasp when his actions had Mike’s finger brushing over his prostate.

“None of that. And I said shhh.” Mike nipped the tip of Peter’s ear, then used his body weight to hold Peter down as he opened him up. He hummed at the squirm Peter gave and slid a second finger home, twisting them.

Peter tried to gauge what Mike was in the mood for. “But what about the others? They might wake up,” he muttered, putting a note of anxiety into his tone.

“Best keep quiet then. If you can…” Mike added another finger and stroked over the swell of Peter’s gland.

Peter writhed into the scratchy straw under him, and it prickled his exposed chest. A few more twists of Mike’s fingers had him almost rutting against the bedding beneath him. He buried his face into it when Mike slipped his fingers away and replaced them with the head of his cock.

“How much lube?” Mike asked quietly. It could have sounded a silly question, but Mike liked to feel it, both in the act and after, meaning he liked Peter to use the bare minimum of gel when he fucked Mike. And when Mike took Peter, although he might want the merest touch of slick, making him have to work for it, he always asked what Peter wanted. And if Peter wasn’t in the mood for that, to be feeling it for hours after, Mike gave him what he needed. No problem.

“Up to you,” Peter replied, his voice barely there, hiding his smile in the straw. He knew what Mike’s preference would be. Although it hadn’t that long since Mike had taken him, he still inhaled sharply as Mike pressed forward, penetrating the tight ring of muscle in a single, slow push.

“Breathe,” Mike ordered, making Peter ease his breath out, accepting the stretch and burn. Mike gave a hard, forward push of his hips, the force rubbing Peter’s cock on the bedding underneath him, and the dual sensations were overwhelming. He barely registered Mike’s gasp of, “Okay?” How could he, when everything became heat gathering under his skin and power sparking along his nerves, and any discomfort taking root to bloom into pleasure?

He matched the nonsense Mike murmured in his ear with a gasp of Mike’s name, knowing Mike could feel how each thrust he gave when he drove deep pushed Peter that little bit closer to the edge. Mike was clever, angling his cock so the head rubbed hard over the bump of the prostate every third thrust or so, and each time it did so, the intensity almost made Peter sob.

His orgasm came with no warning. He arched back hard into Mike, grabbing for a hold under him as his untouched cock emptied into the pile of straw. His whole word was the bright light before his eyes and the roar in his ears. He squeezed his eyes closed, floating through the haze while Mike continued to thrust, his hold on Peter tight when he finally came.

They lay curled together, sweat and cum cooling on their bodies. Mike muttered a warning in Peter’s ear a second before he pulled out. Peter didn’t have long to deal with the feeling of loss—Mike turned him onto his back for a deep kiss, sharing every sensation with him.

“They at it again?” came Davy’s voice came, sounding almost indignant.

“Oh yeah,” Micky answered.

“Well, it’s too early.” Davy sounded like he was trying to turn over and get back to sleep.

“Not for breakfast!” Rustling suggested Micky was sitting up. “Ow. My head needs to be level.”

“With what?”

“Itself?”

 _Hangover_ , Peter surmised. His brothers’ home-brewed beer was…strong.

“They said it was a self-serve all-you-can-eat buffet, remember? And I can eat a helluva lot.”

“They probably meant in the local diner.” Grumbling, Davy nevertheless got up and the pair headed to the wash shed.

“Okay?” Peter asked Mike softly.

 _Yeah._ He felt very okay. He tried to turn his head, thinking he heard a noise at the low window just near them, but changed his mind, preferring to look at Peter, in his arms. Peter, who hadn’t been home last Christmas, meaning he hadn’t seen Ezra then. Peter, who hadn’t given it up for Ezra, or anyone else. Only Mike. Mike had been his first in so many ways, all the important ways. He nodded, wrapping his arms around Peter to hold him close for long, precious minutes, until a series of thuds and a long rumble came from just outside the wall of the barn.

“What—”

“In the world?” Peter finished for him. “Seems they’ve found the bowling alley.”

“Bowling…” Mike supposed it was a joke, but once they were washed, dressed and outside, he laughed to see the wood-plank ‘alley’ that stretched along at least half of one side of the long barn, ending in a backboard. In front of it were little painted circles, telling players where to position the wooden pins and on the wall of the barn was a a slanted down wooden ledge, its outer edge curled up. Mike thought it was a hand rail, but saw it acted as a chute, to return the wooden balls to the start without having to carry them.

“There’s an archery target painted on the other side of the barn,” Peter whispered. He went to adjudicate something Micky was protesting over, and Mike took in a deep breath of winter air, and looked around, assessing the number and size of footprints around the barn before raising his head to scan farther.

A car was hurrying away from the house, black and town-looking against the rural white of the snow. Mike didn’t remember seeing it amongst those parked at the front of the house, and it looked…out of place, somehow. Or maybe that was its speed? “Who’s that? Do you know?” he called to Peter, but by the time Peter heard, and turned, and Mike repeated his query, the car was gone. “Nothing,” he said.

 _Clean._ That was maybe it. The car had looked too clean and shiny?

“Well, means I won. So if there _is_ a diner on the estate, means you have to buy me breakfast,” Davy was telling Micky.

“No, breakfast is provided,” Peter assured them, grinning, wrapping an arm around them, and beckoning Mike over to loop the other around him. “Come on!”


	9. Chapter Nine

“Ever thought this place needs a shuttle service?” Micky asked, eyeing the distance still to be walked to the main house.

“Like golf carts?” Davy asked.

“Or…a monorail, like Disneyland!” Micky’s eyes gleamed. “It takes you from the hotel to the park, remember?”

Mike fell silent, as did Peter. The visit to Disneyland last month had been…something.

“It’s like Vegas, right?” Davy eyed Mike and Peter. He hadn’t been in the room with them, and didn’t know…but suspected…something. “What happens in the vacation kingdom of the world stays in the vacation kingdom of the world, yeah? Of course, if you’re ever tempted to tell me the reason you all clam up about it, please do me a favor…and _don’t_. Okay?”

“Okay,” Mike was happy to agree.

“Sure,” Peter promised, looking relieved and opening the front door.

“No pr…ob…” Micky started sniffing, like any Disney cartoon dog, and turned in the direction of the food scent, the topic forgotten.

Mike kind of thought Micky might be smelling the ghost of last night’s late supper, but didn’t like to tell him, not when he’d already hurried away in the direction of the same dining room they’d been in for lunch yesterday.

“I need tea,” Davy announced. “I’m a wreck before I get a cuppa.” As if to prove he wasn’t, he leaped up to check his reflection in a mirror, then, obviously approving of what he saw, landed facing the way he wanted to go—and did go.

“I’m the Christmas Eve _Kartoffelpuffer Schöpfer_ ,” Peter announced. “You know, those grated potato pancakes you like? I’m going to make them. Go in and sit down. The coffee must be ready and the food can’t be long now.”

Mike pulled him back when he went to go—he didn’t like Peter to leave without a kiss. And today he laid an extra-special one on him, one guaranteed to make him weak at the knees. Sure enough, Peter pulled away a little starry-eyed, and a lot short of breath, barely managing to gasp a, “ _Wow,_ ” and to get a hand to his chest. Mike preened. Just a little. He turned Peter around and smacked his ass to get him moving. _Yeah._

Mike lingered a little in the hall. He’d been curious about the presentation cases, wanting to see the trophies and medals inside. To his surprise, the first and biggest case he looked in seemed to be all about the house, or the farm part of it. The _syrup_ farm part of it. Had Peter ever said? The Best Sugar House in Tolland County Award figured prominently—there were at least five, along with a few Best Craft Maple Syrup Trophies for both the farm’s grade A and B syrup. Oh, and a Gold Maple Leaf Award. Whatever it was, it was the biggest and shiniest cup of all and had a shelf all to itself.

The bottom third of the case held medallions and cups—Peter’s father’s achievements, Mike soon saw. Nice. The family must be proud. He moved onto the smaller case…and the sons’ prizes. Each of the four had a row apiece and Mike bent to find Peter’s.

He knew Peter was sporty, of course, and that he’d played several at school and college, so those sorts of cups came as no surprise, but the medals for pistol and rifle shooting did! Mike was still blinking in astonishment at Peter’s marksmanship when he came across all the scholastic ribbons he’d won, right up to the end of high school. Math. English. History. Modern Languages. And a few Best Overall Grades cups. Oh, and a Math Scholarship, to college? Wow. Then…nothing. An empty shelf. Oh yeah. Peter had said his father claimed to be saving space for the gold records Peter would be awarded, in his chosen career of music.

Mike was peering at the other rows, seeing if Peter’s brothers’ achievements continued past high school, when a door opened along the hall and a figure came out. John, Mike saw, but moving slowly, heavily, his head down. He looked…distressed, was the closest Mike could get. Disturbed? Like he’d had bad news. Mike’s mind flashed to the car he’d noticed. Shiny, black car, like a… _doctor_ would have! Micky had surmised that the reason behind Peter’s father’s visit to the pad was health-connected, the guy coming to tell Peter something about a medical problem he had. And the way he looked now—

Mike must have moved, because John’s head shot up. “ _Ezra?_ ” he called down the length of the hall, peering to see. “Is that _you_? What are you doing here?”

“No, sir,” Mike answered, not knowing what more to say.

“Oh. One of the Michaels. You look just like…” John approached. “Are all three of you or just two of you called Michael?”

Put like that, it did seem odd. “Just two.”

“And you’re Jones?”

“Smith. I mean _Nesmith_. Michael Nesmith.” They must have been introduced, surely? Well, yesterday had been full, with no time to sit around jawing the bacon. Maybe today would be lighter… Just as he thought that, Mike felt a crackle in the air. A heavy vibe. It made him pull away a little, as if examining the contents of the display…while John studied him, like a checkers player did the board.

“I see Peter won a scholarship?” Mike commented, wanting to break the deadlock.

“Ah yes, He was all set to continue to excel academically.” John glanced at his own awards. “You attended college?”

Mike nodded. He’d attended. Just, like Pete, not graduated…

“What did you read?”

“I was a Drama major.”

“So you’re an actor?”

“No, sir. I dropped out.”

“I see.” John sucked in air through his nose, his lips pleated. “And your fellow musicians?”

“Davy and Micky? They, well, didn’t finish their things, yeah.”

“If I were inclined to clichés, I’d be torn here between ‘a man is known by the company he keeps’ and ‘misery loves company’,” John announced.

“Sir, I…” What had Peter told him once, that he didn’t have to answer every shot? Something like that. And Mike definitely felt he was under attack here. The negative vibes swirled blacker and John glowered at him. Mike’s heart sank. He’d kinda thought someone had been looking in the window of the barn earlier…what if it’d been Peter’s father, and he’d seen— Mike grabbed wildly for a response. “I see your point,” he finished, attempting a smile.

He looked around for a change of subject. “What are these photographs of presentation cups? No; a cup? The same one, right?”

“Ah.” The man’s face sharpened and his eyes brightened. Mike hoped, really hoped, the game hadn’t switched from checkers to chess, but had a feeling it might've. “The Mansfield Center Steeplechase Cup. The charity Christmas Eve race.”

“As in today?” God, that was dumb. And yeah, Peter had warned them about a Christmas Eve morning thing.

“Local families and businesses compete in teams of minimum five, with the entrance money going to charity. We’ve always competed, as a family, and used to do well.” John rapped the case which had presumably held the actual trophy, in the years they’d won it.

“Used to?”

John shrugged. “When the boys took it seriously. As soon as Peter reached adolescence, that was it. Everything served as a challenge, or even a battleground, and the others copied his stance. His…attitude. The Neubaums tend to win it now.” His face did that sucking-on-a-sour-candy thing again. “Yes, Papa Neubaum still has the whip hand with _his_ brood. But the upshot is _they_ don’t slope off and smoke reefer and stroll over the finish line in their own sweet time.”

“Neubaum…?”

“Are you familiar with his work? My… _rival_ at the university, I suppose one could say.” John looked almost angular now. “I don’t suppose they attended last night’s carol singing, although Ezra, Peter’s old…friend, who I mistook you for just now, is a noted singer. A—”

“Lyric tenor. Yeah, I met him,” Mike answered, grimly. “E…zra.” His verbal hiccup was a result of just realizing that the name of Peter’s old… _friend_ —and Mike felt sure John had been intending to say something else. Flame? Boyfriend?—Ezra began with _E_ , like the initial carved on Peter’s tree. Mike was glad of the interruption when someone, Inge, he thought, stuck her head out of the dining room and waved.

“Well, one can’t turn back the clock,” John lamented, swinging his gaze to a photo of his four sons taken when they were younger and presumably more manageable, and had still tried their best in the annual race and so the family perhaps won. Competition was important to this man. That was plain as a tick on a duck’s back. “Back to one’s glory days. Although I do think if I was competing, we still might stand a chance.”

“So the family isn’t taking part this year?” Mike asked.

“Oh, we entered.” John shrugged. “We always do, as the fee goes to support the cause, but I’m…not. And without even the little authority I wield, I doubt the family will even show their faces at the starting line, much less the finish. Well, perhaps it hurts the pride too much, to try and fail abjectly, no?” He struck the exhibition case and walked off.

Mike stared after him, his jumble of impressions sharpening into thoughts, hardening into responses and solidifying into plans. _To help Peter’s father,_ he told himself. _He’s the naturally competitive one who feels he’s being personally challenged by that Neubaum guy, his rival, trying to do him down, take what’s not his. I get it._ And if Mike helping to get John something he dearly wanted, and also help him feel he still had some authority, some sway, well, that just might make John well disposed toward Mike. _Which Peter would like!_ Mike shouted at himself.

Straightening to his full height, he headed to the dining room, strategizing as he walked, to stop short once inside. _Woah._ Maybe the place did double as a diner, one with just two clients in Micky and Davy at the moment. _We must be early._ Mike gawped at the long sideboard when some breakfast items had been set out in warming dishes, and where several more metal pans awaited their contents.

“Oh man!” Micky, although seated properly at the table, nevertheless managed to be waiting at the sideboard. “Scrambled eggs, fried mushrooms…”

“Black pudding! Kidneys!” Davy was more British, but equally as transfixed.

“Biscuits and gravy!” Mike yelped as Inge deposited a Texan plateful onto a warm dish and whisked out again.

“And _Kartoffelpuffer_.” Peter set down his platter of round golden cakes.

“Pete, man, I’m so envious!” Micky wiped a tear from his eye. “You could live like this all the time in this big house and you like, slum it with us in our shack?”

Peter gave him a reproving look, one that reminded Mike of Peter’s father, and which recalled him to his mission. The team needed to be assembled… “Where are your brothers?” Mike demanded of Peter.

“If I know them, sleeping in, hungover with a sore head and drinking pints of seltzer, and hungover with a roiling stomach and drinking pints of milk.” Peter ticked the three of them off on his fingers.

“But then there’s not…” _Wait._ That would only be four anyway. _Wait again. Four._ Cogs turned as Mike counted himself plus Peter, Micky and Davy. That made four! “Monkees!” he cried, making them jump and Peter slop his oj. “Are you ready for the biggest, baddest Monkee challenge _ever_?”

“Well, duh!” Micky answered before Davy could say he’d pass, thanks. “And you know, I thought you’d say that, and I’m way ahead of you? Yes, siree! I got a priest disguise _right_ here…and the choirboy robes should fit Davy fine. And Pete can—”

“Because we’re gonna not only take this charity race seriously—we’re gonna _win_.” Mike ignored Micky with the ease of practice.

“How?” Peter asked.

“Micky, put down the knife and fork you’re clutching and get me a map of the area,” Mike ordered, standing aside for Micky to rush from the room. “Davy, stop looking at yourself in that spoon. You know it irritates me.”

“And me?” Peter asked.

“Peter, _I love you._ ” Mike mouthed the last three words.

“ _Thanks,_ ” Peter mouthed back, his face one giant sunbeam.

Davy made a retching noise as Micky swept back in, a rolled-up chart under his arm.

“Now what?” he demanded.

“Now we plot how to win a steeplechase.”

Davy scoffed. “You need a horse, for a start. A steeplechase is a horse race.”

Mike had kinda thought so too, but hadn’t wanted to say.

“No. Original steeplechases were just races from one church steeple to another. With the spire and steeple being tall, competitors could see them easily, and make their way across country from one to the other, like in this annual race,” Peter said.

“See!” Mike struck the table, making the silverware jump and rattle.

“No, I don’t.” Davy shook his head. “Okay, so we know it’s cross country, but we don’t know the route or how we should run it, how we should race. You wanna win, we need an expert, and where we gonna find that, huh?”

As he spoke, Stacia stalked in. Mike stared, and not just at her blonde-haired, green-eyed, slim-figured beauty. Stacia’s hair was tied in a no-nonsense ponytail, her forehead wore a sweatband, her face was dotted in zinc oxide as wind protection and she was wearing shorts and a singlet. Her arms and legs were even more toned than Peter’s. And she was stretching, pulling her arms behind her head like…competitors did…before a race…

“What?” She looked at them as they looked at one another and back at her. “Yes, I’m going for a run to warm up before the race. Well, it’s hardly much of a work-out, is it.”

“I—I thought you were a beauty queen?” Mike said stupidly.

“I am. I do it to get money for my track and field meets. I don’t have time to hold down a regular job with my training schedule, and it costs to compete in county and tri-county and annual AAU events. And if guys are dumb enough to give me money for my looks…” She stretched one leg back on itself and scoffed. “Do you know how well it pays to put on rouge and mascara and parade around in a revealing dress and then an even more revealing swimsuit?”

“Yes,” Micky answered, then blushed when they all stared. “I mean…yes. But don’t question me, please.”

“So you could help us? Compete in the charity race?” Mike worked out that Stacia must be the fifth member of the family team.

“No.” She stared from one to the other, her icy green glare making them all drop their gazes. “I _can_ help you. In fact, do everything I say and I _will_ make us win.”

She whipped out an extra leaf to the table that Mike hadn’t known it possessed and twitched the map free of Micky’s slack hold to unroll it there. Four consecutive snaps of her fingers had Davy sliding salt and pepper pots down for her to secure the corners. She cracked her knuckles and a retractable pointer appeared in her hand as if by magic.

Only then did she look up, to survey her team. And found it wanting. “Micky, drop that sausage wrapped in bacon and grab a bowl of Bircher muesli. Davy, put down the cup of tea and get a glass of hot water with lemon. Peter, stop staring at Mike. We’ve got work to do.”

The look on Micky’s face was half-infatuation, half-terror. _Excellent_ , thought Mike.


	10. Chapter Ten

“ _Mike,_ ” whispered Micky an hour or so later where they all stood on the starting line in Mansfield Center, trying their best to visualize the course they were to race. Mentally visualize: they couldn’t see much ahead, the way the snow had blanketed everything and was softly falling again, powdering everything a little bit more. He raised his voice slightly. “ _Mike!_ ”

“What?” Mike replied out of the side of his mouth, one eye on their trainer.

“Promise me you won’t marry Stacia.”

“What?” Mike’s incautious volume brought the woman in question’s attention to him and he faced front, visualizing and stretching harder, hoping to appease her. He really didn’t want to drop and give her ten push-ups. Not in the snow, Not again. “I think I can safely promise you that. But why?”

“Just the thought of you two being all bossy together!” Micky shuddered. “And having a passel of bossy children bossing one another around too! And probably bossy pets. You know?”

“No, I don’t know.” He…mostly understood Micky, but now wasn’t one of those times. Mike crowded a little closer to his team mates to let other competitors line up but was careful not to lose their spot. The best starting spot, it seemed. They’d gotten to the starting line, near the school at the top of the town, first, before even some of the organizers. It gave them a tactical advantage, apparently. And made Mike and probably Micky cold, standing around waiting. Davy was as used to the chill as Peter was. Lucky stiffs.

“What, you don’t like dominant women?” he queried.

“What? _No!_ ” Micky sounded horrified. “Who does?”

Mike could have told him _he_ did, on occasion. He could quite imagine himself _liking_ Stacia, if she was as proficient and handy with that wooden pointer rod…in other situations. It was practically a cane, and the way she wielded it, he betted she was. Her looks and figure didn’t hurt none, either. Oh, if he were single, of course. Which he very happily wasn’t.

As if catching his thought, Peter looked over. He wasn’t shivering in his shorts and singlet and Mike fought to supress any quiver of his own, in case it was attributed to anything other than the cold. “Don’t think it escaped me that you said _dominant_ and not, say, assertive, or self-determined,” Peter muttered to Mike. “I _know_ there’s a story there. More than one…”

“Babe!” Mike protested, then mimed locking his lips, with a smirk.

“Well, I’m worried,” Davy broke in, keeping his voice low.

“The route’s marked on trees and fences. We studied the map,” Mike tried to reassure him. “It’s only a five-mile course and we’re all used to sports and physical exercise, you most of all of us.”

“Not about this, about Micky!” Davy jerked his head at him. “He keeps mentioning marriage and now having children. Haven’t you noticed?”

Mike…hadn’t, but supposed Davy was in Micky’s company more than he was. “Oh, it’s just being here, in the middle of a big family,” he reasoned. “And that rabbit…” He knew what he meant. “Look, Hilary!”

“She competes?” Davy asked, as Hilary made her way over to the start, in the midst of a group of five. She stared at the five of them and their identifying tabard-bibs, her face puzzled for a second, then laughed and gave them a thumb’s-up.

“Yes, but not exactly on a family team. Well, her father, yes, and the rest are guys from his thread mill.” Peter waved at them and returned their obscene gestures.

“Thread mill?” Mike stared at Peter. “Didn’t you work—”

“As a thread carrier at her father’s mill, umm.”

“Oh, brother.” Mike was imagining Hilary popping up at lunch times, tempting Peter with bites to eat. He could only hope they were all of the brown-bag-lunch variety.

“No, she doesn’t have one. Her father wishes she did…” Peter trailed off to stare at _his_ father, who was walking up, part of the thickening crowd. His mother was there too, back at the tree stumps where the spectators were gathering to make a social occasion of it. Seemed the town had a few, this time of year, along with the harvest events, although this one tended to boil down to waving the runners off, drinking port at News and Booze for a couple hours, then going to wait at the finish line.

But Mike didn’t spare that group a glance. His attention was on John…and Ezra, walking with him and laughing, as John clapped him on the shoulder. Ezra glanced over, a big smile on his face. “Mike?” whispered Micky his voice as tiny as a wisp of snowflake.

“Excuse me a minute.” Mike, eyes fixed on Ezra, stalked as dominantly as, well, Stacia, over to John and his companion. “Hi,” he said to him.

“Hello,” Ezra replied, looking a little puzzled.

“Oh, Ezra, this is… Michael.” John evidently decided to cut his losses. “Ezra is a postdoc.”

It sounded like _post dog_ to Mike, but…couldn’t be, right? “You said _postman_?” he asked, feeling that couldn’t be right either.

“Post-doctoral fellow and lecturer at New York University,” John corrected, scowling, but Ezra laughed, showing very white teeth. “And Michael…isn’t,” John finished. “He’s one of the pop music performers Peter brought north with him.”

Never having been described like that before, Mike was about to speak, but John hadn’t finished.

“Well, time the competitors took their places. May the best team win and the losers not feel too…vanquished.” His tone was heavy, and his longing for victory obvious. Mike was determined to get him what he wanted, but had other fish to fry without a net first.

“Shall we?” Mike indicated he and Ezra should walk to the starting line too.

“We shall,” Ezra replied. “Oh, and I take it Peter’s father hasn’t heard the group perform? Because if he’d been there last night and heard that amazing villancico—”

“Yeah, thanks.” Time was short. “Look, man, I’m plain spoken and direct—”

“Texan.” Ezra nodded. “Go on?”

“I’m fucking trying!” Mike replied, staring him in the eye. “In case you have any thoughts about getting together with Peter for anything more than a quick chat between old friends these holidays _and_ from now on—think again. Oh, and scrap the first thought, too. You got me?” Having just learned that Ezra lived in New York, a place Peter visited a few times a year, added fire to his words.

“You’re right. You are direct.” Ezra ran his hands through his hair. It wasn’t _that_ much like Mike’s, Mike judged. Maybe a mix of his and Micky’s. Mike was glad he was wearing his wool hat. his lucky green wool hat. “You mean you’re with him?”

“Peter? Yep. We’re together now.”

“Then in that case, yes, I got you.”

Mike shot him a sharp glance, alert for any mimicry or belittling. The nod he gave was just as sharp. “Good.”

“And thank you for your frankness.”

Okay, that was above and beyond, right? “Not a problem. There’s plenty more where that came from,” he assured the guy. They were back at the starting line now and Peter, looking from one to another, asked, “Michael?” at the same time someone else called to Ezra.

His father, Mike saw, also seeing Peter’s father stride up. Ezra started to make the introductions. “My father, younger brother, brother-in-law—”

“And grown another brother, have you?” John glared at the fifth member of their team, shorter and sandier of hair than the rest of them.

“All men are brothers,” Peter answered.

“Then you can have no objections to my research assistant. He’s very much one of the family!” Dr. Neubaum replied.

“Grrr! Why did you…” John, halfway through shouting at Peter, went with a glower instead, perhaps mindful that they were in public.

“Oh, what? You weren’t planning to pass these three off as Nick, Chris and Matt, were you? Thinking no one would challenge you?” Peter scorned.

John’s face revealed…that the idea wasn’t entirely foreign to him.

“Oh-ho! Using ringers now, are you?” Dr. Neubaum gloated.

“Ringers?” John rolled the _R_ for long seconds. “I don’t follow…as in bell? Or mangle? Depending on spelling?”

“It’s a gambling term,” his ‘rival’ informed him.

“Is it? Is it? _I_ wouldn’t know.” John’s pounce made him happy. “ _Love_ the family’s old-west look,” came his parting shot, a comment on the group’s matching bandanas.

“You roll your eyes anymore, you’re gonna need a box to keep them in, shotgun,” Mike told Peter, trying to hide a smile at Pete’s reaction to his father.

“Is _that_ what you’ve got me for Christmas?” Peter grinned.

“No and I ain’t saying what I did get, seeing as I took the trouble to hide it so well!”

Mike meant it. He’d had a feeling Peter snooped—and his behavior over his present here had vindicated those suspicions—and had made sure he stashed Peter’s gift far away from the pad, and warned their neighbors Peter might be attempting to search their houses, on various pretexts. And possibly in various disguises. He’d been right about that, too. “Suspected mind-control-gas leak at the Homers? Really?” he crowed.

“Pedigree cat pedigree inspector at the Purdys was worse.” Micky smoothed over the still-healing scratch on his hand.

“Look, what did you say to Ezra?” Peter muttered, looking over at the family.

“Oh, nothing much. Just made it clear to him who he is and who am I,” Mike replied.

“What?” Micky whined, paling.

“Mick, it’s fine. There’s no doubles, no lookalikes, no body swapping…” Mike was still assuring him when the starter pistol fired and they were off. Oh God. There was such a lot to remember, not the least of which was the route from Mansfield Center to Mansfield and back, but not to the starting point, to the other end of the place. Mike was also trying to recall how the race was scored, which impacted on their tactics.

At least there was no need to recall the latter, not with the way Stacia reminded them, having tailored them to the group’s skills—well, strengths and weaknesses—that she’d mercilessly ferreted out prior to the race. _Fast start to get clear of the field. Check._ Mike ignored the burning in his lungs. That was from the cold, that was all. Not lack of fitness.

“Remember the initial cold shock response is just physiological!” Stacia shouted, running in a circle around them like a shapely green-eyed sheepdog, keeping them in their group of five and maintaining a hard pace. “Stay together as long as possible…”

“Only ’cause she thinks we didn’t understood the route!” Micky groused.

“Nah. More like she thinks _you_ won’t follow it,” Davy threw in.

Yeah, they had to stick together until it was time for the quicker runners to draw ahead and the…others to stay back to maximize their endurance.

“Mike, Micky…” Running backward ahead of them, Stacia tapped her watch. “You know when to sprint and pull level with us three, give Davy and Peter the chance to ease up a little?”

“Jeez. Make us pass a baton too,” Micky moaned.

Her strategy did seem more relay-race than cross-country-steeplechase orientated, but Mike trusted she knew what she was doing. Well, inasmuch as she wanted them _all_ to make good times, not just the first four, whose points counted. Or didn’t count—Mike hadn’t gotten to grips with the scoring system used. “Hey there, don’t give her ideas. She’ll want you in a short skirt, twirling one,” he warned. _And you’ll do it._

He lost Micky, of course. Was surprised it wasn’t sooner, in scrambling down and up slopes, vaulting gates, climbing walls and crawling under hedges, all in the snow. How likely was it that Mick was sitting in some warm shed or treehouse, even, sipping hot chocolate and arranging a ride to the finish line? _He’s got the right idea,_ Mike thought mutinously, his feet long frozen, watching several runners zoom ahead of him. _Huh?_ They were all heading left, going uphill and around a treeline, when the course, as marked, should have people looping right, to start circling back. Maybe those competitors were making a wide circle…like, they were all following the leader, who’d gone the wrong way? Well, he wasn’t. He’d make a good time, like Stacia wanted. And if they won, like John wanted, well, that was a bonus, right?

He’d barely plunged over the top of the incline, lifting his knees high to cope with the snow, when someone shouted behind him. Mike paid it no attention and didn’t even turn to see the speaker. Another shout came, this one less of an exclamation and more urgent and harder-edged, but Mike ignored this too and continued. Well, was about to, when something struck his upper back with a cold, hard _splat_.

 _A snowball?_ What clown was throwing _snowballs_? Now he turned, to see a figure a little way back down the track, one on whom an orange bandana stood out against the white of the snow. One of the Neubaums, then, and Mike could guess which fucken one.

One he took pleasure in turning his back on and ignoring, especially now, with the guy being a jerk. A sore loser. A…person who threw snowballs with stones in! That had kinda hurt, where it struck the back of Mike’s leg. The slimeball! What the hell was his game? Mike waited, listened, then turned and dodged to one side fast, and the next projectile missed him, and landed at his feet.

That this one was bigger, and more rock than snow, was proved when Mike stumbled over it, rolling on his ankle and almost losing his footing. He wouldn’t give the bastard the satisfaction of seeing him on his knees though, or even in discomfort from his twisted ankle, so grabbed at a branch to stay upright.

“You gonna come here and face me, boy?” he called across the gap to Ezra, the gap that was narrowing with every step Ezra took toward him. Mike’s eyes opened wide when Ezra stooped to scoop up a huge rock. Kind of a mini boulder, really. Lumpy and pointy, it was heavy enough for the guy to need two hands to heft it, and looked like it could do a little damage.

Ezra charged, running fast at him and when he was level, threw his missile hard. But not at Mike, who’d braced himself for the impact. No, Ezra hurled it down the steep incline Mike had been preparing to descend. The incline that was a bank, and the white in the narrow channel at its base not a flowing stream, but…frozen water. Frozen water that splintered and cracked under the weight of the rock, a rock that, while big and ungainly, weighed a lot less than Mike did, especially if he’d landed hard on the ice after scrambling down the bank. The rock sank, in the same way Mike would have, into the icy water.


	11. Chapter Eleven

Mike stared at Ezra and Ezra stared back at him. There were so many things that Mike wanted to say. Stupidly, the first was _so that why everyone’s looping around this bit of wood: they’re heading for the bridge up there._ _Thanks_ should come first, he supposed, but was unable to make his mouth connect with his brain, to do its bidding.

“I didn’t think you’d stop if you heard me calling your name or if I yelled out what was there. And, regarding that, I didn’t think you’d even believe me,” Ezra said, eventually.

“See you’re direct too,” Mike observed.

Ezra gave a shrug. “Never been keen on beating around the bush. Going straight to the point is my thing.”

He had a rich voice, Mike thought. In all senses of the word—rich in tone and he _sounded_ rich. Like, high value. High quality. He didn’t have the same accent as Peter and his brothers did.

Ezra peered down at the crack he’d made. Thin zigzags were still splintering the ice, with darker water revealed in the gaps that formed. “That’s Little Brook. It hasn’t frozen over in a few years.”

“Hey, I know how to get myself out of ice,” Mike told him.

“You do a lot of push-ups?” Ezra glanced at Mike’s arms.

“I did earlier.” Not a lie—Stacia had made him, and his chest and shoulders still felt them. “Oh, you mean can I support my weight on my arms? Like, push down on the ledge in front of me and raise myself up?” He waited for Ezra to react and spoke before he could. “But yeah, that’s not the technique. You gotta bring your legs up behind you to lie flat in the water, dolphin-kick yourself onto the ice, then creep across it until you get to the edge, where it’s solid.” _Take that._

“Be like Flipper, then Mr. Bug.”

Mike ignored that. “I wouldn’t have been in there long. Not long enough to get hypothermia, if that’s what you were thinking.”

“Maybe not. Just frostbitten toes.”

“As opposed to a busted ankle?” Mike forced his foot to work to kick out at the rock he’d slipped over—the rock Ezra had thrown. He startled when Ezra squatted down in front of him.

“Can you put your weight on your foot?”

Mike could.

“And walk?”

That was harder, but yeah.

“May I?” Ezra didn’t wait for an answer but took Mike’s foot in his hands and undid the laces of his gym shoes. He removed his shoe and sock and rotated his foot. “It’s not broken. You probably only twisted it. But it’s painful, yes?”

Mike shrugged. “I probably won’t be dancing in a club tonight. Well, slow dancing, maybe. The Rumba, and not the Watusi, say.”

A smile curled up one side of Ezra’s mouth, erasing the symmetry of his face. Mike wondered if he were thinking of Peter dancing, doing that energetic move Mike had never worked out if it was the Buffalo Bill, the Jerk, or some hybrid of both. He didn’t think Peter had, either.

“You need to strap it. Bind it.”

“I know. Compression. Only I don’t exactly have… Oh.” He got it, the second Ezra’s hand went to the orange neckerchief thing he wore. “Your family’s version of survival bandanas, huh?”

“Something like that. Pop’s a survivor and determined that we all will be.” He lowered Mike’s foot to the makeshift examination couch-rock and bent it up at right angles to his leg, pointed out slightly. He did a quick out-to-in wrap around the ankle, tighter at the bottom than the top, then a figure-of-eight around the sole, leaving the heel free. “How’s that?”

Mike took a test step. “Good. See why they made you a doctor.”

“I’m…oh. Very dry. Yes, not a physician. Not quite the full ethnic cliché.”

“Huh?” That one flew over Mike’s head, but then he did have it bent, tugging on his sock and pushing his foot into his shoe, the laces of which he fastened with a jerk. He stood and held out his hand to Ezra to shake. “Thank you. For…everything.” He was kind of curious, despite himself. He didn’t picture this guy as a boy scout, earning his knots or bandages badges, and didn’t suppose he’d learned field medicine in the services.

Ezra’s dark brown eyes narrowed, searching Mike’s face. “Ask away. Or want me to save you the trouble? I went on a first aid course, for work.”

“Public spirited of you,” Mike observed.

“Eh, not so much. The doctors at Lenox Hill Hospital are the best-looking in the city.” Ezra’s face turned sly.

 _And from Peter to Davy._ Mike almost wanted to laugh. “Well, guess we should get going. I’ll be fine,” he stated, to forestall any argument, and pushed off.

As he’d expected, it was a little painful, and, as he’d also expected, Ezra stayed level with him. Mike took a look down at the frozen stream as they crossed it, up high on the bridge. Yeah, down there wasn’t exactly the place he’d chose to be. The whole incident had taken less time than Mike might have supposed—there were plenty of runners behind them, when he looked back from the top of a small hill. They overtook a few, the pause maybe having done his pacing some good, as Stacia had said.

Mike recognized landmarks and understood they were approaching the finish. He sped up. “Nothing personal—just our coach said we have to sprint toward the end,” he called.

Ezra increased his pace, drawing level again. Mike was running at full tilt now, and pulled ahead. He eyed Ezra. _Your move._

“I see,” Ezra panted. “Can we trade? As in, I’ll stop killing myself here if you give me my coat back? Symbolism is all well and good, but I would like my lungs to remain where they’re supposed to be in my body. Oh, and my sheepskin back. The _shmata_ you can keep. Pop buys the bandanas in bulk.”

The laughter that rippled through Mike at that almost stopped him in his tracks. “Deal!” he spluttered, racing flat-out to cross the line, Ezra on his heels. A smattering of applause and a few cheers sounded, and marshals fished around at the back of his and Ezra’s necks to remove the tags safety pinned inside their runners’ bibs, and so record their numbers and arrival time.

It didn’t take him long to find the rest of his team—they were the ones in track pants and long-sleeved sweatshirts crowded round a log, toasting one another and getting back slaps and applause from the spectators and other competitors. “Celebrating early?” he asked, coming up on them without them seeing him.

“Mike! We won!” Micky cried, grappling him into a hug.

“What?” Mike pointed at contestants still crossing the line and finishing. “It’s not over.”

“We knew straightaway!” We all finished first!” and “Monkee huddle!” they all said together, the latter Micky. “All of us,” he added, holding out a hand to Stacia, who cast a cool green-eyed gaze over their closeness and replied, “Perhaps not.”

“Please!” called Ginia. Mike hadn’t seen her, but she wielded a camera and indicated they should bunch up.

“Oh, fine.” Their coach stalked into the middle of the huddle. “But I feel so much as a finger below the small of my back, I break it off.”

“You mean shake it off,” Micky corrected.

“No, I mean _break_. As in the finger from the hand it belongs to.”

Micky threw his arms up high, huddling without them.

“You’re later than I expected, Mike.” Stacia consulted her watch. She felt his forehead, then nape, then chest, shoving her hand up his singlet to do so. It was curiously unerotic but…not unsexy. “Limber down then cover up,” she ordered.

Mike obediently ran on the spot, slowing to a jog, then a walk. He stretched his legs one way then another, counting down the seconds with Stacia as she timed him. “Feeling mild discomfort?” she inquired, nodding when he did. “Yeah. It’s normal.”

Mike…kinda wanted to ask if she meant on spending time with her Uncle John, currently shooting them the hairy eyeball. Or shooting _him_ , he guessed. He fought not to look at the guy and instead at what looked like an igloo the younger ones had made. That seemed a more fun way to spend the morning.

“Are you okay?” Peter nudged him aside to ask. “Seemed you were limping?”

“I’m not as quick as you, so gimme a minute and I’ll come up with some pun on not being limp when you’re around,” Mike promised, stepping into the track pants and punching into the zippered top. Huh—why couldn’t he have run in these? People were. Matt wandered by, pulling a box cart of rattling glass bottles by its handle, a box of pastries slung around his neck on ropes, like a cinema usherette’s tray. A glance showed Mike that Chris had the same beer and donuts in the igloo-kiosk. Mike pointed down at the beer bottles. “I’ll take one of those.”

“That’ll be a buck.” Chris stooped to grab a bottle.

“A dollar!” Incredulous, Mike indicated the mismatched bottles of what was probably home brew.

“Okay, family rates. Eighty cents,” Chris offered.

“Give him the winners’ rates,” Davy called over, raising his bottle. “We only paid fifty cents.”

“Oh, but that wouldn’t be strictly accurate, would it?” John asked, walking up. “This competitor didn’t cross the line with you. _This_ Michael was…surplus to requirements, shall we say.”

“Doesn’t matter, not with our four scores. We won the damn _cup_ ,” Peter exclaimed.

“What’s damned about it?” John seemed to want a debate and tutted when no one engaged with him. “And well, every operation needs a Tail-end Charlie, yes?”

Yes, but Tail-End Mike, eighty-cent beer in hand, had to clap the remaining runners coming home, who, once they learned which the winning team was, all came good-sportedly over to congratulate them. Oh, and congratulate them more on learning they had some of the fastest times _ever_. Mike had to be dragged into going up with the other four to receive the cup. _More pictures of me scowling_. He wished he could send in a ringer for the photos.

An inch-worm wriggled into his thoughts. If he hadn’t be so focussed on winning, he might have understood there was a good reason the other competitors were taking the long way around. And if he hadn’t been seeking approval, he might not have been so all fired up about winning at all costs. Or…had that thought been sparked in him? The worm slithered deeper, leaving a slimy trail, on catching John’s look of what, _disappointment_? It couldn’t be, right, not when his family were hoisting aloft the cup? Disappointment…in Mike, in the guy his son had chosen? Mike’s unworthiness being proven by his poor showing? Or disappointment that…he’d finished at all? Had made it back?

 _No._ Mike put those creeping suppositions on lock-down. Even a shadow of a thought that Peter’s father had wanted Mike to take risks in unfamiliar terrain and so… _No._ That was _paranoia_ , man. The vibes Mike might have thought he’d picked up weren’t real. He did a double take at Micky as they prepared to leave. “Whoa, there. That coat’s not yours.” He rubbed the sheepskin between his finger and thumb to make sure. He knew what he meant.

“It’s not yours, either,” came Peter’s pert reply.

“I know that.” Mike stopped himself looking at Peter, to see if Peter was playing him and Ezra off against the other. He wouldn’t do that. “Hand it over, Mick.”

Micky, not grousing for once that their possessions, clothes especially, were communal, did so, and Mike shook it out and checked the pockets for anything Micky or he might have left in them.

“Where you going with it?” Micky demanded.

“I gotta render unto Ezra the things that are Ezra’s.”

“Not… _Peter_!”

“Knock that off,” Davy ordered Micky, clouting him on the back of his head. “And take that on account—Mike gets pissed off with you, you’ll be paying more for it later.”

“And I’m going alone.” Mike held up his hand in a _stay the fuck here_ gesture to Micky and strode over to the departing Neubaums. “Ezra. Here.”

“Thank you.” Ezra slipped it on. “And mazel tov.”

“Huh? Oh.” He knew the expression. “I’ll pass it on. Thanks.” He shook hands with the family again and made to go.

“Michael.”

He halted at Ezra’s call. “Mike,” he corrected. “What?”

 _What_ was Ezra flashing him a peace sign, making his father exclaim out loud. It made Mike laugh again, wondering if Peter did that to John, to irritate him. The unease over Peter’s father that had been threading through him quieted a little during lunch. It being an informal, serve-yourself meal, like breakfast had been, with people eating at different sittings, meant they could wait until the ‘grown-up adults’ had gone first—although Micky barely, whimpering and pawing at the floor.

At least the nutjob’s face lighting up like the sun when Inge brought him in a plate of breakfast she’d saved him, for him to wolf down before his lunch, made Mike smile.

“I bloody love leftovers!” Micky enthused, for some reason sounding like Davy and making them all stare.

“Then you’ll love lunch.” Peter curled his lip as he replaced the lid on the soup made from the rest of the ham, not ladling any out for Mike, although he’d been getting better at that kind of stuff since they’d gotten together. He also turned his nose at the rest of the beef, warm and sliced for sandwiches with oven-fresh homemade bread rolls and a variety of pickles and condiments that Mike just _knew_ Micky was going to sample in their entirety, starting at one end of the row and working his way down the end—all on the same sandwich.

“You got cheese,” Mike pointed out. There were also tomatoes and green onions. “You won’t starve.”

“He looks about ready to collapse, though. Wassup, bro, you can’t take the pace anymore?”

Matt’s comments, echoed by Chris, had Mike examining Peter and finding him tired.

“You exhausted him,” said Micky on a fake cough, mirroring Mike’s thoughts, then found himself on his ass on the floor after a neat, clever hook of Peter’s foot around his chair leg deposited him there. Undeterred, he continued stuffing his face from under the table, having kept hold of his plate as he fell.

“You okay there?” Mike murmured to Peter.

Peter nodded. “I’d love to turn in for a nap though. But it’s family activities this afternoon.”

And the strain of…things is sapping his energy, Mike saw, guilt drenching him.

“Yeah. Good idea. You go. We’ll wrangle the little critters, won’t we, guys?”

He kept it vague who he was addressing, but assumed some of the others would help. They did, settling the smaller cousins down in a pretty room along the hall, looking at books on a low shelf, some of which were old scrapbooks. Mike found one holding Christmas cards the four boys had made, going back years, and sat, his compressed ankle up on a stool for the rest and elevation part of the treatment, to pore over Peter’s. It seemed quiet and when he looked up, he was alone, the others having drifted—or sneaked—away.

Only, he wasn’t alone for long before the door opened and John came in, heading up the bunch of grown-ups, board games in his arms. He looked surprised on seeing Mike. “Oh. You’re still here?” Then his eyes sharpened “So, joining the adults for some warfare?” He dropped the games onto the table, and Mike tried hard not to hear the eager bloodlust in his tone.


	12. Chapter Twelve

“Abstract strategy, surely, John?” Ginia asked, shaking a box free of its lid. She opened out a board that was divided into small squares and set out black and white playing pieces, although Mike didn’t think it was for checkers, not with the grid being so small, and the counters too, all round and shiny like seeds or pebbles. The white ones almost reminded him of breath mints, and the other color, brown M&M’s. Ginia took a seat on a low stool, leaning against an armchair.

“It’s an adversarial game.” Uncle Bryn rolled up his sleeves.

“You know they call these games mind sport!” His wife Carole laughed, bringing a chair up next to his. Seemed it was brother—and wife—against brother and sister-in-law.

“We’ll soon see who’s got more stones.” John sat.

Mike supposed he was referring to the playing chips…primarily, but he didn’t miss the gleam in the man’s eye.

“You seem interested.” John tilted his head at Mike. “Happy to take you on? Bryn, you don’t mind playing one of the others?” He indicated the two other couples setting up their own board at another table. It seemed to be some sort of tournament, Mike thought, his guess confirmed by John’s, “I usually play the winner.”

“It’s…not chess, right?” Mike thought he’d better check. Could be some fancy New England version of it, all minimal and elegant, for all he knew.

“ _Chess?_ ” John’s incredulous laugh drew everyone’s attention. “Chess! That’s for cutting one’s teeth on, before one moves onto this! A larger board, more scope for play and longer games, and many more possible alternatives per move.”

“I’ll pass, thanks.” Mike wished he’d gotten out of the room sooner, but nodded politely as Ginia and Carole tried to explain the aim of capturing more of the board than the other player or team, which meant capturing the opponent’s pieces, and ways to do this. It seemed to have a good few Japanese words in it. Peter was interested in that country and its culture. Finding that another note making up the symphony of Peter had originated in Peter’s home life made Mike smile. He pretended not to hear John’s muttered, “Huh. No stones,” and also tried to pretend it wasn’t directed at him.

“I think there’s an old checkers set in the attic,” John offered. “We could get that, set it out, have a quick game? It wouldn’t take me long.”

Mike shook his head, not wanting anything confrontational.

“Snakes and Ladders? Tiddly Winks?”

“John!” chided his wife. “Not everyone likes board games.”

“Oh, is a guessing game more like your style? Like, Eye Spy, say?”

If he hadn’t been the target, Mike might have admired how John could play a complex game and insult a guest at the same time. “There was a guessing game Peter and Davy played once. It was a little…unusual.” He tried to remember. He hadn’t been focusing at the time, not when Peter’s wife, a person about whose existence Mike had had no clue, had turned up at the pad. “It had a guy’s name?”

“Kim? Kim’s Game?” John scoffed.

“No. That’s a memory game. You play it to train your powers of observation.” He wondered at the glare this provoked. Had Ginia stilled too? God, he was getting so paranoid. “This had the name of someone famous. From history.”

“Moriarty?”

“Maybe…” The length and beat of the name sounded right.

“Ah!” John leaped to his feet. “Yes, the children usually love playing that! Come, let’s get a game going, keep the youth occupied while we in here get to more bellicose and yet cerebral pursuits…”

“No, it’s fine—I…” But Mike found himself towed from the room, along the hall and up to the next floor landing, John blowing a whistle on the way to rally ‘the youth’. “And I’m not sure it was called—”

“Are You There, Moriarty!” John shouted in triumph a few minutes later, having tied a scarf around Mike’s eyes and shoved a rolled-up newspaper into his hand. Another scarf had served as a makeshift rope, fastening Mike’s wrist to John’s—the guy sure liked to incorporate tying people together into family activities—before the two of them lay down on their fronts, head to head. “Answer!” he ordered Mike.

“Yes?” Mike replied, with not a little trepidation, unable to see anything. Then, “ _Ow!_ ” he exclaimed, as John hit him hard about the head with the rolled-up newspaper _he_ held. “ _Hey!_ ” he tried, when another blow landed on his ear, and when that didn’t work to stop the smacks, rolled and ducked. Jeez, the man had a heavy hand and a good aim. Some of those marksmanship medals in the trophy case had been his, if Mike recalled. Guy had sure earned ’em fair and square.

“Still wanna marry into this family?” Mike asked Micky grimly, a few minutes later, once John had gone back to his ‘grown-up adult’ game, and Mike had declined another opponent and instead leapt to his feet and backed away.

“Are you _kidding_?” Micky landed a succession of hard, noisy _thwacks_ on his opponent, who responded with a few choice words Mike supposed were insults. “I finally found a game Davy’s no good at!” He got in another hit, and Mike hoped that Davy’s order to Mick, to, “do one,” wasn’t as rude as it sort of sounded, not with tender ears present.

“Erm, you do know _both_ players are supposed to be blindfolded?” Nick said, strolling up with his younger brothers to spectate.

Mike frowned and rubbed his sore head again. That would make more sense… “I guess your father forgot that part of the rules,” he answered. “But credit where it’s due—he’s got a mighty strong arm.”

“And the Sunday paper.” Chris unfurled it, showing Mike. “About twice as thick as the daily you were armed with.”

“Well…” Mike tried not to think ill of the man.

“Funny game to choose. Dad usually gets the younger ones playing that old guessing game Peter liked, Botticelli,” Matt observed.

Mike tried really, really hard not to think the worst, both then and at dinner, later. At least Peter looked better, after a rest. Mike was hungry, having supervised a game of hide and seek, then led the search party for Elsa, lost in action, only to find her under a billiards table in the basement…with Davy, at which he’d had to beg Micky not to make any quips about the pair of them searching for a missing ball…

“Wasn’t gonna,” Micky had sniffed. “Was working on something about it takes two to find Davy’s cue stick, but the moment’s gone, now.”

This meal was more formal, making Mike happy the four of them looked smart, in their suits, with Inge bringing the dishes in this time, and serving the guests. The first course she brought, a fish she carried on a silver platter, looked nice, to Mike’s eyes, but only Peter’s grandma had some. He nodded when Inge drew level with him, and thanked her for serving him a helping, along with some of the boiled greens and a boiled egg it shared a dish with.

“Oh. Another churchgoer, I see.” John pounced from the head of the table.

“Excuse me?” Mike asked, after checking he didn’t have his elbows on the table. No; that had been a different pounce. _Damn._ He probably shouldn’t have started eating.

John smiled at Mike’s puzzled face. “I assumed you were intending to go to church, and so partaking of no flesh or fowl before service.”

“Like Cait,” Peter explained.

 _Oh!_ Mike felt stupid at realizing why the majority weren’t eating the simpler food, that they weren’t just fussy eaters, declining the first course. Was this another one of those things that other people except him knew about? “I was brought up with religion, yes,” he answered.

“How fascinating. I’m presuming a Southern Baptist, dipped in a river to the sound of _Amazing Grace_? Or maybe Pentecostal? Do you speak in tongues?” John sat forward.

“I was brought up a Christian Scientist,” Mike answered, his knife and fork slowing and his heart sinking.

“A Christian Scientist!” John sounded like he had some of his favorite candy in his mouth now—or maybe like a shark scenting blood. “Wouldn’t you say it’s more of a philosophy, than a religion?”

“Isn’t all religion?” Ginia countered, to a chorus of, _hear, hear_ , one in which Micky joined in a little late.

“But it has such a lot of _disparate_ philosophy! The immaterialism of Berkley, the absolutism of Hegel and the natural energy transference of Franz Mesmer! Such a smorgasbord—”

“Michael, you’re driving Cait to church?” Peter cut in to his father’s exclamations. His question puzzled Mike for a second, before he reasoned Peter, MIA all afternoon and not beaten around the head and ears or making out under a green baize table, must have thought this had been arranged.

“Oh yes, please!” Cait called. “That would be very kind of you. It’s not often I have such a handsome man to take me places.”

“I’d be honoured, ma’am. Cait,” Mike answered, correcting himself before she could.

“So Christian Science, oxymoron? Discuss,” John continued, pointing a spoon at Mike. “Well? Defend thyself.”

“Father!” Peter snapped. “You’re treating Michael like one of your students!”

 _One he doesn’t like very much and thinks should be sitting on a stool in a corner, facing the wall and wearing a tall pointy hat with the letter D on it_ , Mike could have added, but didn’t. He felt bad not so much at how Peter’s father was behaving toward him, but that it was a strain on Peter. Being one of the only two eating was a strain on Mike, and he didn’t know why the others’ food wasn’t served, or if he should eat quickly, in case its arrival was dependent on the people currently eating having finished.

Peter got up and turned the record player on, perhaps because he had to pass Mike to do so, and could stroke the back of his neck, discreetly, or maybe because it would change the subject. It did the latter.

“Ah.” John nodded along to the classical music filling the room. Mike kinda wished Peter had checked which record was on the turntable before he’d dropped the needle into the groove. He wasn’t up for a game of Name That Tune. “Gin, this piece, remember?”

She nodded, and in the three conversations that sparked up at once, Mike learned she played piano, as her mother did, to concert standard, and used to do so. He had a vision of infant Peter sitting in his mother’s lap, trying to reach the keys and bang out some notes to play along with her, although he’d never heard Peter play anything as swooping and complicated as this. Mike betted he could, though.

“The oboe,” John said, in answer to a question from Davy that Mike had missed. “I play the oboe.” He thumped the table. “And please do not any of you even consider indulging in any would-be double entendre or so-called innuendo. I’ve heard them all, and about every aspect of woodwind, from tonguing to blowing to—”

Micky raised a hand. “Fi—”

“Micky!” Mike yelped, fearing the worst.

“Figuring out how to make reeds?” Micky asked.

“Oh?” John looked marginally interested. “You know the instrument?”

“Yeah.” Micky took a sip from his glass, and looked sad to find it was water. “My dad played an oboist.”

“An…oboe, I think you mean. I _hope_ you mean,” John corrected.

“No, an oboist. In a movie. He did a lot of research for the part and told us all that the oboe is as close to the sound of the human voice as you can get. He said it’s the only instrument that can convey the depth of human emotion.”

“True.” John cracked a smile. “What was this masterpiece of cinema? I don’t believe I’m familiar with it.”

“ _Orchestra of Blood._ You didn't see it, really? Oh, man, you gotta! It's the grooviest! It won a B Movie Award! They all get murd—”

“ _Ahem,_ ” Ginia coughed, indicating the tender ears present and avidly listening.

“Gotcha. M-u-r-d-e-r-e-d one by one in ways connected to their instruments!” Micky continued.

Mike’s wrist hurt, he was making such violent ‘cut’ gestures, but Micky, who loved talking about his father and his movies, was into his stride now, and…acting out the plot.

“The violinist gets strangled with his own strings! The clarinet player gets poisoned by his own mouthpiece! The timpani player got beaten to death with his own drumsticks—”

“Don’t give us any ideas,” Davy muttered.

“Mommy?” Erin was frowning. “What’s ‘mudded’? They all got ‘mudded’? Does that mean someone threw mud at them? Who did it?”

“And whyyyyy?” wailed her brother.

“No, _muddled_ ,” her mother said instantly. “They got muddled.”

“Micky can’t spell!” whooped Erin.

“She’s got your number,” Davy deadpanned.

“Like you got Elsa’s?” Micky was never shy about payback. “ _He won’t call,_ ” he mouthed across the table to the girl, who looked as murderous as the villain of _Orchestra of Blood_ , whoever that’d been.

“We met at a concert.” Ginia spoke over Patrick’s continued demand to know why someone attacked musicians and was it on stage and did they get in trouble about their clothes getting dirty. She raised her voice over Erin puzzling over what the orchestra were mixed up about; did they all get the wrong instruments? and indicated herself and John. “Music brought us together.”

“Us too!” Micky pointed at the four of them.

“That’s four!” said Matt, sounding like his cousin Patrick.

“Micky can’t count either!” Chris announced, in a good Erin impersonation, rubbing his arm where she hit him. Seemed strong-muscled ladies abounded in the family.

“I don’t mean that we’re all four…not like you two,” Micky clarified to John and Ginia. “Oh, but Mike and Peter are, and they met through music.”

“At a classical music concert in Washington?” John asked, ignoring the first piece of information and looking as though he knew the answer to his question would be—

“No. Not exactly. Waiting in line outside a West Hollywood nightclub.” It sounded…bad. Mike knew it as soon as he said it.

“Ooh, a nightclub. I haven’t been to a club in years!” Cait sounded wistful.

“It’d be my pleasure to take you,” Mike assured her, catching up to what he’d said the instant the syllables left his lips. Yep, that’d sounded worse.

“I won’t spoil the plot twist, but the oboist had a false hand!” Micky finished.

“Shall we go?” Cait stood.

“Oh God, yes please.” Mike pulled out her chair for her and tucked her—hopefully not false—hand through the crook of his arm. Church, nightclub, graveyard—he didn’t care. And yeah, he knew he was playing his own personal game of Anywhere But Here.


	13. Chapter Thirteen

“Michael…” Peter caught his free arm. “Enjoy the evening.” He trailed his fingers down to the end of Mike’s, to the tips, when he lingered with slow deliberation. “See you later.”

Mike, still feeling the ghost of that touch and the force of the intent behind it, didn’t notice Cait leading him the wrong way along the hall, in the opposite direction to the front door. She pushed open the door to a room he hadn’t been in yet and tugged him in after her, her grip bony but strong. Mike realized the room he’d spent time in earlier hadn’t been a living room, but more like a den, because although that had been fancy enough, _this_ one was something else.

“Keep watch!” Cait demanded, shutting the door.

About to ask how, in that case, Mike understood her signal to mean…through the keyhole, made possible if he knelt on the floor. _Okay._ It occurred to him then he didn’t know what or who he was watching out for.

Rustling and a, “ _Damn!_ ” came from behind him, from the direction of the Christmas tree. From _beneath_ the Christmas tree. “Sticky tape as well as ribbon. The sly little— Have you a pocket knife about you?”

Mike usually did and, this being no exception, slid his over the floor to where Cait was shaking a big box. No, a wrapped present. His face must have betrayed his confusion.

“It’s mine. Look,” she assured him, turning a label toward him, as if he could read it from where he still knelt. “I’ll replace it before tomorrow.”

Where…had Mike seen that before? “Don’t tell me—you told them what to get you.”

“No, I ordered it myself and Ginny and Johnny paid. Much easier…” Cait’s reply came a little distractedly as she gathered throw pillows and a small rug and filled the box with them, in lieu of the rich-swank coat she’d taken out. “Not that they’ll check,” she muttered, refolding the colored paper around the cardboard and re-knotting the ribbon. “I’m simply too much of a perfectionist, really.”

“You’re one step beyond Peter,” Mike told her.

“Well?” Cait settled the coat to her satisfaction and twirled from the mirror to him. “What do you think?”

 _It’s furry?_ was as much as Mike could think of. “You look a million dollars?” he tried.

“Is that all?” Cait huffed. “I knew I should’ve gone with the sable.” She winked and dropped the throw from the back of a chair over her as they headed to the door. To cover her plunder, Mike realized.

“Don’t forget the car keys,” Cait said when Mike emerged from the cloakroom in…Peter’s sheepskin. “Oh, and here…”

When he raised a puzzled brow at both the Stetson she passed him and the comment she’d made, Cait took a set from a brass hook on a small board for him.

“A Lincoln Continental?” Mike yelped, outside, when Cait indicated the vehicle. “ _Nice._ ” And Peter’s father’s, he supposed, helping Cait in. _God._ He’d better not screw up, especially not going to church. He tried to trace Peter’s features in his grandmother. Maybe the eyes, and something of her poise? But more definitely, her energy. _Her vibe._ He wasn’t too surprised when she started talking about the group.

“I thought you all sounded so good and looked a treat in that teenage soap opera, Michael.”

“ _Hollywood Hills High_? You saw that in New York? I didn’t think a network there carried it.” Mike pulled out of the grounds onto the road—slowly.

“No, they don’t. I traveled to a region with a network that does, to see those Specials you appeared in. I petitioned local networks to carry it, of course. I didn’t manage to see you on that local pop music program, but I did organize a write-in campaign to get you back again.”

“Really? Thanks.” They’d appeared on the new _LA Live_ segment of the _Hubbub_ program, getting the most votes of September’s acts, meaning they were asked back again in October. Mike…didn’t want to think about what had happened then. “You’re a real fan,” he added, hoping to change the focus slightly, in case Cait asked about what had happened then.

“Oh yes. Of whatever any of the boys are doing.” Her smile was fond, grandmotherly. “I’m their Grams. Ginny was busy when the boys were born, and when they were young, so I stepped in. And since being widowed, it gave me something to do.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Mike said.

“Oh, thank you, dear. Straight through the town and could you speed up a little? I want to get there in time to socialize on the porch and show my coat off,” she replied.

Fighting a grin, Mike obliged. “Peter stayed with you in New York,” he said. It was half a guess.

“Umm.” Cait finished fiddling with the radio. Another family habit. Well, a Peter one, at least. “Yes, once upon a time, until he found his feet and moved in with a fellow musician, into a Greenwich Village hovel! Oh and then he and Elizabeth stayed with me, after the wedding.”

“ _Wh—_ Jesus! Sorry.” Mike’s wild swerve and half-skid had thrown Cait to one side.

She glanced at Mike. “You did know about…”

“Yeah…I didn’t know you did.” Oh, that was dumb. He tried to recall if she’d been in the photo he’d seen of the ceremony, but didn’t recollect much beyond the expression on Elizabeth’s father’s face…and the shotgun in his hands.

“Oh, I’ve known her mother for years. I’ve always tried to help her.”

“Help her…”

“Find a damn spine!” Cait’s lips thinned. “Elizabeth seems to have one. Yes, they stayed with me for a while until she came into her inheritance and they took their apartment.” She anticipated his question. “Peter said he didn’t think his parents would understand about the marriage. About his actions.”

“Oh?” Mike pondered, as much as he could while focusing on the road and concentrating on driving on snow. Peter’s parents would surely have approved of helping a bright woman get a college education? Look at his mother. They didn’t seem religious, so probably wouldn’t have been angered at their son making a mockery of a sacrament or having a civil wedding. Maybe the lying-to-parents part? The haste of it? He guessed he truly wasn’t a grown-up adult yet, then, if he couldn’t see things how such a creature might.

“I’m sorry if it put you in an awkward position in the family,” he said at last.

“Oh. Thank you.” Cait looked startled. Maybe no one had said that to her. She leaned into him a little. “I worry it makes Peter, well…less of a catch. Being _divorced_.” She lowered her voice on the last word. “You know?”

“Not…really,” Mike had to admit.

“Peter said you were together. Partners.”

Mike let the pause stretch, hoping they’d be at their destination before Cait thought how to proceed. He could see the white church just up ahead.

“But I don’t quite understand. I mean, you’re not like Maurice,” Cait continued.

“Maurice?”

“My hairdresser. He’s so…dainty, you know? Refined. _Queer._ ” Cait dropped her voice on the last word.

“I guess I ain’t like Maurice, and neither is Peter.” Mike slowed, waiting to get into the small line of cars turning into the church’s lot.

“Then I really don’t understand.” Cait took out a powder compact and opened it. “And I don’t understand what you _do_. Isn’t it… _messy_? I mean, if there’s _two_ lots of…” She let a gesture speak for her.

“ _Jeez_ , ma’am!” Mike took a breath. “I don’t feel easy talking about details, and especially not with a lady.” _Who’s also Pete’s grandmother!_ “Sorry.”

“Oh, you’re straitlaced.” Cait smirked. “I’ll wait until you’ve got a few sherries down you tomorrow! Oh, you’ll need them, to get through Christmas morning. But you love him, Michael? He loves you very much. I think I knew it before he did.” Face attended to, she slid her compact back into her purse.

“So did Elizabeth,” Mike muttered. He turned to Cait, the headlight of a turning car slanting a beam across her. “Yes, I do. So much and for so long.”

She nodded. “I’m very glad Peter’s happy.”

“You’re not…” There were so many adjectives to choose from, all of them ugly.

“Prejudiced?” Cait scoffed, peering through the windscreen. “You try going through life as the daughter of an Irishman, then the wife of a Jew.”

There was no answer to that, Mike felt. He pulled into a space in the lot at the side of the white church, a building in that style he thought of as _wedding cake_.

Cait sat up. “I’d say let’s skip church and go for a cocktail, but this is my chance to catch up with friends I only see a couple of times a year. And I do want to show off my new fur.” Any imperiousness she might have had had turned impish, analogous, maybe, to Peter’s pixieness. “And show off my handsome escort, too!” she added. “Oh, not escort as in gigolo. I’m not quite reduced to that yet.”

“Me neither,” Mike added, and wondered which of their denials was hastier. He ignored her glance and made a mental pledge to refuse sherry—and all alcohol—tomorrow. Just as he didn’t want to know anything about her familiarity with gigolos, Cait was not going to get any Texscort details from him. He helped her out and waited until she’d found her footing.

“Now, Michael, I can’t introduce you simply as Peter’s _boyfriend_.”

They were approaching the church. “I understand.” _And half-expected it, although it would have been nice, for once—_

“So you won’t mind if I…?”

“Of course not,” Mike assured her. “No one would want you to do anything that makes you feel uncomfor—”

Cait had taken off before he’d finished, and swept up, coat swishing, to a gaggle of elderly women in the porch by the time he’d reached her. Calling out hellos to the group, she waved a commanding hand at him. “Ladies, this is my eldest grandson, Peter’s, partner, Michael Nesmith. Of the _Dallas_ Nesmiths, you know.”

“A _Texan_?” and, “A _Southerner_?” cheeped out of several sets of wrinkled, pursed lips, underscored by the rattling of pearls being clutched in thin, dry hands.

“Ladies…” Mike tipped his borrowed Stetson at the bunch and, God help him, winked. Even Kincaid would have been ashamed of how thick he was laying it on. A brittle chorus of, “Oh mys!” and “Well I nevers!” followed him inside.

“Bait and switch?” he muttered as he and Cait took their seats.

Cait waved at someone. “They’re easily distracted over shiny things. It’s almost cruel to play cards against them.”

“But you do,” Mike murmured, shaking his head and determining never to go up against this woman. At cards or otherwise.

And yet she was kindness itself, turning to him during a slight pause in the service and murmuring, “All right?”

“Well, there’s no dunking in water or speaking in tongues, but I’m fine,” he deadpanned.

Cait sniggered and passed him a mint from her purse, reminding him so much of his mother, taking him to service when he was a kid, that a tear threatened his eye. He concentrated on the talk, or sermon, or whatever they called it in this denomination, and it was pertinent and timely, all about considering your blessings. Mike didn’t have to think very hard to list his. Peter occupied enough of his thoughts and most of the time as it was. Family was a blessing. And Mike hated that there was tension in Peter’s. That he was the cause of— _No._ He considered Peter’s father. _Contributing to._

Driving back, he eyed Cait, silent in the passenger seat beside him. “Cait, don’t say anything if you don’t want to, but is there anything you could tell me about Peter’s relationship with his father that would…” _Explain…what?_ He hated being so inarticulate. “He’s mentioned before about the family moving around a lot, when he was a kid, and that he went to boarding school?”

Cait was silent for a minute more. “John was a person used to having things his own way, and then he met Ginny!” she answered. “He’d just about recovered from that, then it started again, I suppose, with the boys? And before that was the war...all that entailed...and after, the world changed. And now more so than ever. And there was never any telling Peter what to do.”

“The family moved to different places, for his work?”

“Yes… I know moving grew more complicated, the older the children got. Children do better in one school, or with less frequent changes. Sometimes Ginny and John would leave them with me, or I’d stay and look after them at wherever they were living, if they were off somewhere. And yes, they tried boarding school for the two eldest, but neither of them were keen on it.”

Why did Mike feel that was an understatement? He could imagine Peter making his… _not keenness_ felt. “So that influenced the decision to stay put.” He felt he was getting somewhere. Was resentment somewhere in the John-Peter mix? Blame? And Peter resentful and angry at being blamed for something he’d had no control over?

“Then John started to take his teaching seriously, and there was less…traveling. Overseas or at home.”

“Oh?” Mike had assumed the guy had always been a career academic.

“Yes! After all the places they’d lived in, places he’d worked in or been involved in projects in, they settled in this backwater!” She still sounded surprised about it. “John moved through the ranks at the university here, Ginny returned to her studies, started a career… But, Michael, while John wishes Peter were more settled, was on a more defined path, he loves him very much and wants his happiness. I know that.”

Mike nodded, but didn’t answer. She was a kind lady and would say that. Was a good person—would _think_ that. “Want me to keep watch, while you replace the stolen goods?” he offered, as they returned to the house, a house for once silent, and its hall and corridors empty. It felt like a lull, a ceasefire. The place had a more overwhelming air, lifeless like this, with no cousins shouting, no music playing, no burble of grown-up conversation. It seemed colder, too. Mike fought not to feel crushed under its weight.

“Thank you, but I’ll be fine at this time of night. And thank you for driving me, Michael.”

“My pleasure.”

“Nightclub next time?” She patted his arm.

He was still snorting over that when Cait reached down to a small table with a built-in seat. It took her, “Not that I’m expecting anyone to call…” for him to realize it was the telephone table, tucked into a corner of the small corridor. “Oh. One for you.”

“Me?” He took the sheet of paper Cait ripped from the pad and handed to him.

“I’ll leave you to it. Good night, dear.”

“Night,” he called after her, absently, staring at the pencilled words and number. He didn’t recognize the handwriting, so didn’t know who’d taken the message, such as it was: there was no name of the caller, just _Mike, call back_ , and a number. He didn’t recognize the number, either, but knew the area code. LA. Strange.


	14. Chapter Fourteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies to Mary Elizabeth Jennifer Rachel Abergavenny "Betty" Yiddell Slocombe for the steal.

He looked up and down this small corridor off the hall, wondering if the person who’d answered the phone and written down the message was still about, so he could ask for any more information they might have. But the corridor—and the hall, when he wandered along it—were still empty. The phone call could have been a couple of hours earlier, of course; whoever had been on phone duty wouldn’t necessarily be hanging around.

Was that a noise from upstairs? Not the next floor, he didn’t think, but the upper story, the attic. He could walk up there. He hadn’t seen it yet, and he bet Davy and Micky were there…unless they were trying to peep into the bedroom the teenage girls were sharing. And that was always supposing Davy wasn’t in _there_ already. Or were the girls in the basement? He hadn’t been paying much attention to the accommodation arrangements.

Oh— _someone_ was on this floor. He could hear voices in a room down in the smaller section to one end of this main bit. No point going there though.

Mike drank water from a faucet in the cloakroom, splashed some on his face and wandered back to the telephone table. When he sat, his heel kicked against something on the floor, under the seat, and he fished it out. It was a small, slim upright wooden box with a slot in the top…and a small sheet of paper Scotch taped to it. Mike flipped this back to see the motto poker-worked into the wood.

_A two-minute call_

_Keeps the bill small_

Cute, he supposed. He shook the box and a few coins rattled. Oh, so telephone users had to contribute to said bill if their call took longer than two minutes? The shaking flipped the paper back to the front, for him to read the string of messages written on it, discovering they weren’t phone messages…

 _Does anyone else find the uneven meter of this ‘poetry’ – using the word loosely – annoying?_ it began, in what he guessed was John’s writing—it sure had the feel of the way Peter’s father communicated.

 _How so, ‘uneven’?_ _Its meter is a dimeter and both lines have, in fact, two feet._ Peter’s mom, Mike felt. Must be. She taught English lit and was into language too.

 _Well then its feet are uneven_ , John had added, a little churlishly.

_You mean it limps?_

_Like, it’s lame, man?_

Mike had to snigger at that. He’d bet those comments were Chris’ and Matt’s.

 _Well, maybe instead of headless verse, it’s toeless verse_ , came the next one, and he’d guess it was Nick’s, another literature expert.

 _Neologisms are the lowest form of wit_ , John had added to that.

 _What, worse than this ‘verse’?_ Nick had replied.

 _Nothing could be that._ Mike felt that was over-dramatic, and seemed the guy’s son did too.

 _Challenge! Ready? Ahem: Ya wanna hollar? Put in a dollar!_ Nick’s response, accompanied by a small drawing illustrating it, made Mike laugh out loud. John had the final word:

_It pains me to say this about any of my progeny, but I fear your future lies on Madison Avenue, son._

This was squeezed onto the foot of the paper, and made for a pained, much less truculent ending note than the comment that had started it. Mike twisted the paper over as he thought he’d seen more there, and discovered Ginia had written a technical analysis of the verse’s feet, in case anyone was interested. Mike just about knew what an iamb was, but an anapest? And he didn’t know what the symbols she’d broken the words, no; the _syllables_ , into, represented. But presumably the family did though.

He sat back. The exchange was funny, sure, and it was clever, too. Just like the family. Smart, clever and _learned_ , he supposed. All of them, Peter included. His father had expected him not just to finish his college course, but excel academically, like at school, and then make his career in that world. And hadn’t Pete once said he’d planned on being a teacher? He’d be great at it. _Was_ great at it, whenever he taught them something music-related, for instance.

Here, surrounded by the trappings of Peter’s background, he tried to imagine Peter in this life, maybe teaching at the university he’d studied at or somewhere else his father had strings to pull, perhaps. Maybe even back here? Living right here at home? Mike…couldn’t see that. In New York? Peter liked NY. Where…Ezra was. With Ezra? Mike didn’t want to even think that. Mulling it over, he absently dialed the number scribbled on the message paper, and was almost surprised when it connected and someone answered.

“Oh, hi, yeah, I got a message to call this number?” he said

“And so you did—what, I got my Christmas wish early, you doing my bidding?” the guy replied, then gave a throaty laugh.

“ _J?_ ” Mike yelped, recognizing the aiming-for-and-mostly-hitting cool tones of the lead singer and bassist from the Foreign Agents.

“Want me to call you back?” J asked. “Pops’ll spring for it—bills get paid by the company account.”

“Sure!” Mike settled back on the cushioned seat, and within seconds, was grabbing at the stupidly loud phone when it rang. Grinning, he had a half-dozen questions for the blond, but J got in first.

“Calling with bad news, gotta say, Mike. I had that appointment with the specialist, about my fractured septum?”

“The…your nose? What—”

“He said I’d never sing in tune again.”

“Oh, J, man…” Mike’s heart pumped hard and heavy for just one beat until the snort of someone—broken nose or not—trying not to laugh reached him. “Oh, you little _shit_! And so you told him it was no problem, that you—”

“Never _had_ sung in tune, yeah. I imagining it or you a little slow there, slick?” The _click_ and inhalation told Mike J was lighting a cigarette. “Thought hot weather, not cold, made people slow? But I guess you’re used to heat, all that languid pace, the beads of sweat rolling down bare skin…”

Mike grinned. This was like being back in LA. “I guess. Yeah, could be brain freeze, out here.”

“Then we better cross Antarctica off the list of fun destinations. Although I’ve always been kinda curious about fluids in about sub-zero temps? Like, what happens when you c—”

“ _J…_ ” Mike tried to put a warning note into his tone. “What was agreed about flirty talk?”

“ _Ja, ja, flirten ist verboten._ Sorry—drinking schnapps.” He proved it with a slurp.

“I’m sorry. About your nose. About Peter…” Mike wanted to close his eyes but didn’t, in case the image sprang up.

“Yeah, me too. For a pacifist _and_ a vegetarian, Blondie sure packs a helluva punch.”

“Yeah, he’s knocked me flat with one hit before,” Mike confessed.

“Eh, I had it coming. Now, if I’d _gotten_ it coming…”

“Jeez, man!” Mike shook his head.

“Sor- _ry_! Drinking _brandy_ , remember?”

Mike was sorry that the whole thing had played out in public like that. He thought the Monkees would have won, for the second month running, and been invited back on _LA Live_ for a third time. Instead, both they and the Foreign Agents had been banned by the network.

“And wasn’t all bad—the studio doctor was a _fox_.”

“Like the doctors at Lenox Hill Hospital? Oh nothing.” Mike waved a hand, as if J could see him.

“Yeah, I got me a date out of it, over easy.”

“Even with all the blood and cartilage?”

“Especially!” J tutted at Mike’s naivety. “They get off on that!”

Mike hoped not literally. He strained to hear—were those noises in the background? He held the receiver away from his ear. Not here. J’s end. He knew better than to inquire using a phrase like that, of course.

“And he was in with a technician there, so I got me cine footage of the fight,” J continued.

“Mass fucken brawl, you mean,” Mike muttered, sinking down in his seat and wishing he had a drink, like J did. It might’ve started with Peter punching out J, but it hadn’t ended there, not once the remaining Foreign Agents had taken on the rest of the Monkees, then the Hubbub dancers had joined in. Mainly, Mike and Davy had surmised, so Deandra and her friends could let Micky have it. And he guessed a good few studio hands and techs had their own grievances against the dancers, and had taken the opportunity to get payback on that. And if anyone had thought dancers were puny, or uncoordinated, they now knew better.

He tried to wrench his mind away. “What do you want film of it for?”

“Play behind us at gigs. It’s arty. _European._ It got a filmmaker interested in me.”

“For work?” Mike didn’t think—

“Nooooo. Well, not exactly…”

“You ain’t dainty, either, J. Nothing. Ignore me. So ya called across two and a half thousand miles and three hours, to play a goddam joke on me?”

“No. To wish you Happy Christmas.” J inhaled, sounding affronted.

Oh. Mike felt touched. A thought struck him. “How d’you know where I was?”

“I got my ways. No, I called around with your Christmas card only to find an empty pad, and a neighbor said you’d gone north for the holidays, so I guessed it’d be Peter-north and not English-Davy-north, dig? Not hard to look Blondie up in the phone book.”

“Which neighbor?” Mike had no idea why he asked that.

“Dunno her name. Little old lady, always gettin’ her pussy serviced by the bug-eyed doctor guy?”

“Talking of,” Mike said, ignoring that, “are you in a zoo?” The noise from the other end of the line was getting louder. “What the hell’s that? Sounds like a lion roaring and a bull rampaging.”

“K.” J’s answer came succinctly.

“Your _sister_?” Mike held the phone away from his ear again, this time for respite.

“Yeah. Her lid’s on too tight, you know? Always, like, turning up for work on time, and not taking long lunch breaks, and not leaving early when she’s got something better to do?”

“Not that high a bar there, in your family,” mused Mike. “But what’s with the one-woman animal kingdom re-enactment?”

“She gets wasted on public holidays and lets us have it.” J sounded resigned.

“With both barrels? ’Cause I thought I just heard someone yelling at her to put the gun down?” Mike hoped he’d been mistaken—

“Oh yeah, but it’s not loaded. See?”

Mike could hardly see, through the wire, but supposed the clicking noise was the bullets removed from the gun and being rolled around J’s palm.

“Told you she was _loca_. Her birthday’s worse.” J took a massive drag of his cigarette.

“J…what—the hell?” Mike finished, flinching at the loud bang.

“Oh, she found the blanks. We hid a box where she’d probably come across ’em. Decoy, ya know?”

“No, I don’t know,” Mike admitted.

“Oh, ’s’right. You don’t got sisters.”

“And…I’m kinda glad about that fact.” Especially when a crash like glass smashing sounded.

“Better go. She’s reached the using-the-rifle-as-a-club stage. But the blunt instrument phase is followed by the tossing of the cookies, then the crying of the eyes out ones. _God._ Sometimes I think the festive season’s more trouble than it’s worth, ya know? And hey, see I kept my word? I didn’t say anything to you just now I couldn’t say in front of Peter, right?”

“I guess…” Those had been the terms agreed upon, but Mike narrowed his eyes.

“So now off the clock, just to say, if things don’t work out, Peter-wise, or you get the urge, the itch to play—”

“Bye, J! Oh, and Merry Christmas!” Mike called, as he was replacing the receiver. Standing, he dug in his pockets for coins to drop into the box. A much less than two-minute call out of state wouldn’t keep the bill all that small. Bits of paper swished around in the box, but Mike doubted they were actual treasury dollar bills, fed in by dutiful family members.

He shook his head at the absent J. As if Mike would get any urge, or itch, or anything, to play away, or whatever the idiot had been going to say. Cheat on Peter? Not in deed, or in thought…even if J’s attentions were…kinda…not entirely unflattering. He’d make sure to tell Peter J had called, wishing them all a Happy Christmas, and that they’d find a card waiting for them back at the pad.

Conscience clear, and mood improved, lightened, even, Mike strolled down the hall and even up two flights of stairs, wondering where everybody was. The attic was now serving as a dormitory, although if he remembered right, it would also be the venue for the Christmas play the family traditionally put on on the day itself. Tomorrow, he realized. Soon, in fact.

All was quiet there, the smaller kids presumably having worn themselves out or forcing themselves to sleep to get up at the crack of dawn. He debated trying the basement, deciding against it in case it was the teenage girl cousins’ stronghold, with the very strong Stacia holding court there. Chris and Matt had a den somewhere in the grounds, a shed where they brewed—and drank—beer, having taken the space over from Nick and Peter, its original owners.

Nah, he was too tired to go hunting. He let himself out of the door, wondering at the rumble of voices from the smaller section on the end of the main part of the house, and finding his steps taking him around that way. Well, he hadn’t really seen the wraparound veranda, or porch yet. He stilled, sensing a presence in the shadows, but his attention was on the room from where the voices came. Voices he knew, one very well, and not just speaking, but raised in argument.

“You’re totally outmoded! Antediluvian!” Peter raged.

“I don’t understand that,” whispered a voice from the corner.

“Micky?” Mike fought a yelp on seeing him curled up on a chair.

“ _Shush!_ ” Micky crunched some popcorn and pointed to the window, where John was commenting on his son’s Judeo-Christian view of the world.

“Okay. I don’t follow that,” admitted an English voice at Micky’s side, where its owner rustled around in a bag of caramels.

“Davy? You’re here too?” Mike advanced, keeping out of sight of the room.

“It's called getting an education,” Micky answered.

“What's—” Mike stopped himself. He had a feeling he…didn’t want to know what father and son were arguing about.

“Is that a dig?” Peter’s voice was icy. “About Ezra? Oh no, you buried your head in the sand about that.”

“And onto the world of nature. It’s encyclopedic with you,” came John’s reply.

“ _Told you,_ ” Micky mouthed. " _Highbrow._ "

“Fine,” Peter snapped, and Mike could imagine him, white-faced, pinched-eyed, spitting that out. “I’ll ask you plainly, then, what you’ve got against Michael.”

John was silent for a moment, and Mike thought— _hoped_ —he wasn’t going to answer his son. But he did.

“He’s not the kind of person I can associate with, and you shouldn’t either.” Peter's father's words fell like heavy rocks into the still waters of the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On hiatus for a bit.


	15. Chapter Fifteen

“What—” said Micky.

“The bloody fuck?” Davy finished, both of them turning to Mike and both their faces wearing identical mixes of fury and…pity.

“We…better go,” Mike whispered, holding out a hand to get them to rise and go in front of him. He needed to be last because he couldn’t deal with either of them seeing the look _his_ face must be wearing, just then. A noise behind them had them running, to arrive panting at the barn, where they hurled themselves inside.

“That was _awful_.” Micky’s face looked like Mike felt. “But Peter…”

“We can’t let him know we know.” Davy took the baton, with Mike unable to speak.

“So we don’t stand here like this!” Micky hissed waved at them where they were leaning against the door. “We gotta look casual!”

“Hard to get more casual than a barn,” Davy muttered, but it was surprisingly hard to know what to do. Run up the wooden steps to the hayloft, like they were sitting chatting on the upstairs landing, back in the pad? Not that Mike could recall if they’d ever sat in a row there, swinging their legs over the ledge—surely he was getting confused with the boardwalk?

“Try it!” Micky urged, picking the image from Mike’s head and dragging them to the wooden steps.

Within a second, they were seated cross-legged in a line, looking out through the rails, like Monkees in a cage. “No, man!” Mike protested.

“Sit on the steps?” Davy pointed.

That was a thing they did back home. _Home._ Mike felt a pang at the word. But the twists to their helter-skelter stairs meant they could all lounge on the steps and talk and mess around and pass magazines or leaflets one to another. Here, there was no room to sit, never mind sprawl, so they stood on the narrow rungs, one above the other. Mike looked down at Micky standing below him, then Davy below them. “This…can’t look natural,” he judged. “We look like we’re acting disembarking a plane, or walking down a gangplank.”

“All together? Same step?” Micky suggested, so Davy jumped up and Mike down, both of them squeezing either side of Micky.

“And we’re back to the sodding Von Trapps.” Davy sighed.

“Huh?”

‘“So long, farewell, _auf wiedersehen_ , good-bye,’” sang Davy, in reply to Mike. He sat and bumped himself up a few steps on his ass, waving down at Micky and Mike, below him. ‘“I flit, I float, I fleetly flee, I fly. The sun has gone to bed and so must I.’” He lay on his side as if asleep.

“Wait…that line was sung by the _youngest_.” Micky pointed a finger.

“So? I’ve always been a bit baby-faced.” Davy stood, arms folded.

“The youngest, who’s…a _girl_!” Micky exploded. “You mean you tried out for the role of _Gretl_? Holy moly, that’s _wild_ , man! You—”

“ _Stillgot theLederhosen,_ ” said Davy on a fake cough.

“Oh, man! No fair dangling the leather shorts in front of me!” Mick lamented, breaking off when the barn door creaked open and Peter came in. All the levity, the attempt not to think about what was happening, fell away.

Peter looked up at them, gauging where they stood and how still they stood. “You heard,” he said flatly.

“Just a bit,” Davy replied, when no one else did. “And Mike hardly anything.”

“I don’t get it!” Micky burst out. “Why’s he saying those things? And why now?”

Peter sagged back against the door and Mike stamped on Micky’s foot and could tell by the jerk Micky gave that Davy had booted him from behind. “Babe—” he started, stopping when Peter raised a hand, palm out.

“Don’t. Just…don’t.” He rubbed the back of his hand over his mouth. “I take it the sluice room’s free?”

When no one replied, he strode into the stone room that the door at the top of the barn gave onto.

 _That’s what it’s called?_ Mike found himself stupidly thinking. He started forward.

“Let him be for a bit.” Davy’s voice came from behind him, and Mike stopped, then nodded. Li’l biscuit was right.

“But I meant my question,” Micky whispered. “His dad was cool—well, ish—with stuff, when we got here yesterday, right?”

Mike replayed his encounters with John, their interactions. “I guess he wasn’t cool as much as ignoring the situation, Mick. Or maybe he really didn’t understand, and Peter, or someone, explained it? Or maybe laid it out to his mom, and she got upset, and that got his dad mad?”

“Or could even be his father prided himself on being, say, rational or even liberal, and now he knows he’s not,” Davy suggested.

That made a kind of sense. The guy, while eccentric, did seem kinda open-minded to things? Mike thought about the family as a whole. John wasn’t the inflexible authoritarian dictator head of the household—no matter how much he might want to be or even try to be—or the family the conventional, conformist unit Mike might have expected, after hearing Peter’s denunciations and seeing his bids to live life on his own terms. There were a lot of currents eddying in these waters.

“Seeing something from the outside looking in…that’s different from being inside it,” he said, at last. “I don’t know, Micky.” He looped an arm over Micky’s shoulders. Kid hated upsets like this. “Hey there. It’ll be okay.”

“You should go in now, go be with him.” Davy jerked his head toward the wash room. “He’ll be about done—he’s quick in the shower. You never take too long when you’re one of four.”

“Yeah,” Micky agreed.

 _I wouldn’t know._ Davy and Micky understood those things about Peter that Mike didn’t. Things about families. Family ties… Sure enough, the water had stopped. Mike breathed in the lemon and vanilla scent of Peter’s Christmas soap.

“Hey.” Mike closed the door behind him. Peter had washed his hair, and Mike could’ve gone with something like, “Going anywhere nice?” or “You get confused and think you just came in from the beach, there, shotgun?” He hesitated.

Peter spared him a look. “ _Don’t._ ”

“I won’t,” Mike promised, glad to do so. “Here, sit down.” He hooked a foot around the three-legged stool, getting it between them, and held out his hand for the towel. Peter sat, slowly, and let Mike rub his hair for him, getting it as dry as he could, then comb it.

“How much did you hear?” Peter asked eventually, his face looking a little calmer

“Just a part.” Mike let the silky dark-blond strands slip through his fingers. He loved the feel, loved to sit reading or watching TV, with Peter reading lying next to him on the couch, his head in Mike’s lap, for Mike to stroke his hair. It never took them long to abandon their reading matter or whatever was on the screen. “Near the end, I guess. Him saying he couldn’t associate with the likes of me.” When Peter didn’t react, Mike asked, “What happened after?”

“Nothing. I got so mad at that, I got tongue-tied. I didn’t want to stutter and splutter so I stormed out.” He gave a bitter laugh.

“Peter…” Mike sucked in a breath. “I—”

“No. _Don’t._ Don’t _dare_ offer to leave.” Peter stood.

“Look, I…” _Don’t like being used as a pawn in whatever long-term chess game you got going with your father,_ he hated to find himself thinking. “Don’t like seeing you like this. Seeing this. Causing this.” He hurried on before Peter could stop him. “If he asks me to go, I gotta. It’s his house.” Which made him wonder – why hadn’t John done just that?

“He won’t. Just…” Peter exhaled, perhaps doing his yoga breathing. He laid the towel out to dry. “He’s always been a bitch, but he’s not usually a bastard. I don’t get it. He was okay at first, too.”

Mike thought back to them at the lunch table, then at the ice skating…then him talking to John in the hall. _He didn’t know me at first,_ he tried not to think, not wanting Peter to pick up on it. “He thought all three of us were called Michael,” he recalled, feeling he had to say something. _And then when he realized which Michael I was…_

“Did something happen?” Peter demanded, and Mike heard it as, “ _What did you do?_ ”

“Nothing,” he insisted, but asking himself the same question? It wasn’t a question of him _feeling_ he’d caused it: the fact was, if it wasn’t for him being in Peter’s life, this wouldn’t be going down. Mike busied himself washing up and getting into his sweatpants, hiding his thoughts from Peter. Peter bringing Mike with him like this, as his, well, _someone_ , had caused this—but what if Peter’s _someone_ …was someone else? Someone as clever as the family, as confident, as special… _Should_ Mike leave, short-circuit the situation? And if he did, would Peter leave with him? And if he did, would that be better, or worse?

“What? What, Mike?” Peter was in front of him, right in his face.

“Oh, just thinking…you’d better put that present back, all wrapped up again, before it’s opening time.” Mike placed the soap carefully on the edge of the sink. Yeah, he was a coward. “You all done there, angel?”

“ _Angel?_ ” Peter blinked.

“Guess so.” Mike grinned. “It fits, right? ’Tis the season. And you all blond, and pink-cheeked and shiny…” At least it made Peter smile.

Back out in the barn, they both stopped short to see the four sleeping bags not just side by side at the boiler, but— “You zipped them all _together_?” Mike asked.

“Yeah. Had to, so we can sleep in a Monkee pile.” Micky made it sound obvious as he dived in. “Look, Peter needs his pack. It’s what a pack does, when one member’s down.”

“You think we’re a _pack_?” Peter shook his head. “That’s not right.”

“It’s not?” Micky asked Peter, his face worried.

“No, man. A group of Monkees is a tribe!” Peter dived in too, making Micky squeal, the sound girlish.

“You’re both wrong. It’s a barrel. As in a barrel full of Monkees?” Mike, his heart feeling lighter, slid in on Peter’s other side, pulling Peter to him. “Davy?” he called. “Stop primping in there and get in here.”

“To this carload?” Davy replied, showing he’d been able to hear, even in the wash room. “Fine.” He squeezed in between Micky and Peter, making Micky Monkee on the edge, and wriggling to get right down into the bag. “Talking of carloads, no one better touch my undercarriage, you hear?”

“Davy, it’s hardly a _load_ ,” Micky scoffed.

“Word association, you ’nana. My downstairs bits, then.” Ignoring Micky’s riffing on that, Davy examined Peter’s face. “Here. Turn round. I’ll give you a scratch.”

Mike’s initial thought was that Davy was joking, playing on them being animals in a pack or a herd or whatever, but Peter turned, facing Mike and his back to Davy. Mike couldn’t see what Davy was doing, but saw the pleasure steal over Peter’s face, and him close his eyes. Curious about the scratching noise, he peeked over Peter’s shoulder, to see Davy drawing his nails up and down Peter’s shoulders and neck, then nape, and into his hair.

“My mum used to do for me when I was a kid, if I’d had a bad day. School or whatever.” Davy’s voice came softly.

 _When you got picked on._ Mike understood. He was more curious, however, about Davy having done this for _Peter_ before, when they’d used to share a room. Davy soothing him after a rough day… What kind of bad days? Mike hoped he hadn’t been the cause of them, as he was kinda the cause of this now. The _scratcha-scritch_ noise was calming to hear, so he could only imagine how relaxing the feel must be. Even Micky was silent. Did Davy do this for him, now they were roommates? The lines of Peter’s face smoothed out, gladdening Mike’s heart.

Peter opened his eyes and jumped to see Mike so near. His lips turned up into a smile and he giggled. “Thanks,” he murmured, twisting his head to Davy.

“Wow.” Micky’s voice was thick with reaction. “Proves you like Pete the best of any of us—you’d risk your manicure for him.”

Mike…silently agreed.

“Let me do you.” Micky tugged at Davy’s pajama top.

“In your dreams, perv.” Davy’s answer came on a yawn as he settled onto his back.

“Oh, he probably does,” Mike couldn’t resist replying.

“Only sometimes.” Micky leaned up on one elbow to address them, sending cold air in. “When I’ve had Cheerios for supper. I think it’s the name, you know?”

“No,” came in a three-person chorus.

“Like, ‘Cheerio, guv’nor’?” Micky’s accent made a mockery of even Dick Van Dyke’s.

“Which I’ve never said in my life,” Davy replied, adding, “…guv’nor,” after a beat. He wriggled. “Micky, gerroff and pack it in. It’s never gonna happen.”

“Do not take that as a challenge, Mick!” Mike ordered.

“Not even a…Monkee challenge?”

“ _No,_ ” came in a chorus, answering him.

Silence reigned for a few blissful moments until Micky broke it: “A Christmas challenge?”

“ _NO,_ ” came louder, from three throats.

The barn grew silent, the night settling, until Peter whispered into Mike’s ear, “Do you get scared too, thinking about what Micky asked Santa for?” making Mike wheeze, holding in his giggles.

“Never mind Santa, it’s that blonde elf at the Sears store in the mall I felt scared for,” Davy whispered. He had sharp ears. “I heard Micky bypassed the old geezer in the red suit and went straight for her, and that once he got _her_ settled in _his_ lap, it took Santa _and_ another elf to get the poor bird free.”

“Well, you heard wrong!” Micky’s voice held a note of triumph, for all it was sleepy. “Took Santa, the other _three_ elves _and_ the manager. Oh yeah, and we can’t go back to that store anymore.”

“None of us?”

“None of us. Or Toby,” Micky answered Mike. “But that’s…for another reason. Which is Davy’s fault, anyway. He said he’d give her a ring…she didn’t realize…Davy speaking British and…”

Mike thought he was probably asleep before Micky was, spooning Peter, his arm wrapped around him. He woke with a start a little later, feeling a body at his back and an arm curling over his, for its hand to burrow in between his and Peter’s. He knew that hand, that arm, that body. “Mick, you naked?” he muttered. _Always best to check._

A hiccup of laughter came in his ear. “I kinda miss you asking me that,” Micky whispered.

“Me too, actually,” came quietly from Peter. _Huh._

“ _I_ bloody don’t,” Davy said.

Mike snuffled into Peter’s neck. “Night, angel,” he whispered.

“Night.” Peter rubbed his head on Mike’s forehead. “I’m going to try again with Dad tomorrow.”

“Well, tomorrow’s gonna be another Christmas day,” Mike agreed, just to pay Peter back for some of _his_ awful puns. He tightened his arm around him and was asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates sporadic for a bit.


	16. Chapter Sixteen

Mike twitched away from whatever it was tickling his face, then stilled. His sleep-clouded brain tried to tally up the sensations. A feel of silkiness. The faint smell of citrus. And, if he sank a little deeper into dreams, into longing, the solidity and heat of another person. He could add them together to make up a phantom. Could pretend. Could imagine… _Peter_.

So when a firm softness rubbed the tip of his nose, then stopped, to reappear at the bridge of his nose and slide down, to rub the tip again, he smiled. Peter’s nose, with its tipped-up tip. The lips warm against his, giving the gentlest, tiniest press, were Peter’s beautifully shaped ones. Mike even imagined the dab of that button mole on the left side. His smile wavered and sank. _If only._

But for now, the dream-sensations upon him, he could lose himself in those clouds. Could indulge… His hand inched down his body, aiming for his stiffening cock. He wouldn’t waste these sensory delights that his early-morning brain, the one that was composed more of imagination and wishing than thought, was gifting him with. If he never had the real thing, he’d have—

“ _Michael?_ ”

Peter’s voice, surprised. Startled. Not the passion-drenched moan Mike heard of it—made of it—in his fantasies.

“Michael, are you—”

Peter’s voice, close at hand, too filled with laughter to complete the sentence. Peter, unzipping the sleeping bag to watch Mike’s hand, wrapped around his dick, begin to leisurely stroke. _Peter._ Here, now, with him, because they were together, a couple, MichaelandPeter, and those lonely days of yearning, of having Peter only in make-believe, were long gone. _Oh, thank the Lord._

Mike froze and jack-knifed up. “Morning,” he managed.

“Don’t stop on my account,” Peter said. He sat back, as if settling in for a show. “I’m curious. I want to hear if you moan… someone else’s name.”

“I only _started_ on your account there, babe,” Mike assured him. “Only name passes these lips during sex—even solo—is yours. No, really. I was dreaming about you, and then you were here. Like I got my dream. My wish.”

“Really?” Pleased, Peter bent forward to give him a proper kiss. “Happy Christmas,” he whispered, against Mike’s lips. “Our first Christmas _together_ together.”

“Yeah.” Mike curled a hand around the back of Peter’s head, right into the silkiness of his hair, to rest his forehead against Mike’s and keep him close. Just for a minute, perhaps, until the usual craziness of a Monkees day, and probably an even crazier Christmas day, crowded in. He needed this, starting and ending the day alone with Peter, like recharging himself. Re-Petering himself. He fought a laugh. But his thoughts about them being alone had reminded him it was too quiet.

“Where’re the others?”

“Huh.” Peter stood, his lip out in that pout that drove Mike crazy. “And I thought you’d be paying attention to me.” He revolved in a slow circle.

“Oh, you got your Mr. Schneider presents on!” Mike pointed at Peter’s new paisley shirt, bright in swirls of blue and green, and white pants. He wore them with a dark-brown vest he already owned, and his beads that Mike had given him, and looked… “ _Fucken edible._ ” Mike only realized he’d said that out loud when Peter smirked. “You like them, I take it?”

“ _You_ do.” Peter’s smirk thickened. “I bet you had more of a hand in these than the other two did. Or you soon will…”

It took sleep-fogged, caffeine-less Mike a second to get the joke, and when he did, he groaned. “Who even came up with that idea, as a way of us giving one another presents, anyway?” he wondered.

It did mean—huh, like Peter’s family’s gift exchange—that he, Peter, Davy and Micky didn’t have to find the wherewithal to buy three presents apiece, one for each of the others, which was a plus. Having Mr. Schneider give them each a gift instead made it easier to save for them, via a year-long savings pot, different to their running expenses kitty.

The man in question, via his four proxies, always got them clothes—items the Monkees always needed and wanted—with each person’s present chosen by the other three…once they approved of it. It tended to result in at least four sets of three-handed arguments. Although this year had been easier, Mike recalled.

“He did you proud.” Mike rubbed the paisley material between his fingers. The hippie look suited Peter’s spirit. No; Peter himself, just by being Peter, made the outfit look good. Made _anything_ look good. Or he looked good in anything. “Even better in nothing.” He knew from Peter’s smile he was following Mike’s thoughts. The others had liked their handknitted sweater and silk shirt, judging by the discarded wrapping paper and there being no sign of the gifts. Or their recipients. Mike thought he could hear yells and laughter coming from the grounds, in the distance.

“Who’d you get in your family Santa dip?” he thought to ask Peter.

“Chris.” Peter sat and shot him a look Mike couldn’t decipher. “I got him something…big. From all of us. But, yours!” He shook the present wrapped in white paper adorned with a huge likeness of the mannequin’s face. A horrifyingly close likeness, with the dummy made festive by showing him in the white-trimmed red suit and hat they decked him in, this time of year, just as they did the chimp, in a much smaller version. The chimp went at the top of the tree, and Mr. Schneider sat underneath. It was as bizarre as it was normal.

“Open it!”

Mike did so, peeling off the paper with care. The wrapping was Peter’s handiwork, and Mike wanted to keep it. “Oh my.” Mike looked up from the Western-style boots and belt. He couldn’t resist stroking, then smelling the soft leather. “These are wild, man! I bet I know who had the casting vote in these.”

“You dig ’em?” Peter’s question was redundant and his face beaming. He entwined his fingers with Mike’s to brush them down the worked leather. “I know we’re not supposed to…” Peter looked all around, in exaggerated guilt. “But I got you a present just from me. But I kind of owed you, anyway.” He ran his fingers along the string of beads Mike had given him, his morning-after present following their first time together. One of their first times. Their biggest first time.

He’d lamented that he had no return present for Mike, despite Mike telling him over and over that he was the most perfect gift he could ever had wished for.

“So, here.” Peter pulled a flat present out from where it was buried in the straw and Mike laughed at this wrapping paper. Peter had drawn Mike’s face on it, his green wool-hat adorned with mistletoe.

“You didn’t have to,” he said, sliding a thumbnail along the Scotch tape to open this with just as much care as he had the other, then pulling out a white dress shirt, with beautiful Western detailing and pearl snaps.

“I saw it and thought of you.” Peter stroked the fine cotton. “Not like, say Micky would, to the extent of getting up close and personal with the display dummy in the store, but—”

“Hey.” Mike knew nervous babbling when he heard it. Did enough of it himself. “Don’t beat yourself over gettin’ an extra gift. Not when I—” _Got_ you _one too,_ he stopped himself telling Peter. He didn’t want him burrowing—Mike ducked his head to hide his grin at _that_ —around for it. “I don’t like to see that,” he finished.

“But you like this?”

“Babe! It’s as perfect as the boots and belt. It’s a real thing of beauty. Like the giver. Who deserves a kiss. C’m here.”

Perfect, Mike thought, moving to sit with his back to the fence around the boiler, and pulling Peter into his lap, to cuddle him close. Perfect Christmas morning. Perfect Christmas kiss. When they pulled apart, they were both smiling.

“We should get moving.” Peter stood and helped Mike up.

“For that?” Mike jerked a thumb in the direction of the squeals and shouts from outside.

Peter shook his head. “I’m too old to look for Father Christmas. No, really!” he said, in the face of Mike’s skepticism. “It’s how Christmas morning starts, going out to look for the tracks of Sant’s sleigh and the hoofprints of his reindeer…and every year someone falls off the roof in the process.”

Mike, on his way to wash and dress, had to laugh. “Bet I know who it is this year. Then what?”

“Oh, it turns into storm the fort. You know, two teams throwing snowballs and capturing the other’s stronghold? Storming their defences.”

“Kinda like I did you.” Mike dotted a dab of shaving cream onto the tip of Peter’s nose.

“You must be joking! It took me ages to wear you down!” Peter exclaimed, dodging the towel Mike attempted to snap at him. “Hey, whatever happened to peace to all men?”

 _Ask your father that_ , Mike found himself thinking, and hoped it wouldn’t come to that. “You’re lucky you’re so cute, pest,” he told Peter. “And that I’m so hungry.” He dressed in his new clothes and blushed at Peter’s Monkee whistle. “So, breakfast?”

Peter made a face as he shrugged into his coat. “Yeah. Anyone who’s not gone hunting Santa and who’s not a grown-up adult has to make it.”

Outside, Mike took a second to get his bearings in the fresh snow. He thought he was finally getting a sense of the property and where things were. Which reminded him— “Inge and Paul got the day off?”

“Sure. They sit down to Christmas Even dinner with us, then they’re free as birds for a few days. Oh, that’s right—you’d gone by then last night. Oh, yes…how was church?”

“Enlightening,” Mike informed him. “I learned a lot. Like, don’t play cards with your grandmother.”

“Oh?”

But Mike refused to explain further. They went in the back way, and he nodded when Peter explained the two-tier breakfast tradition that adults ate in a civilized fashion, in the dining room, and the kids in a free-for-all in the kitchen. The place seemed quieter than Mike would have expected for a Christmas morning. Most of the guests were outside, he supposed. There were food smells, and he thought he’d heard some movement in a room off the main bit of the kitchen, but he’d have expected more cooking going on, on Christmas Day? Even if the family ate the big meal in the evening?

“Oh, there he goes.” Peter indicated the noise from a room outside the kitchen. “Father starting a row. A Christmas row as opposed to a Christmas Eve row. Or, say, an everyday one.”

Was it rowing? Cait had said John was strong-willed, and Ginia a person with her own opinions. Mike got the feeling John simply…liked arguing. Mike had seen real, ugly conflict in his time, and this wasn’t it. And John thrived on having a crowded house, which indicated— Before Mike could sort through what he meant, even aided by a huge mug of coffee from the massive urn, the other door swung open and Nick hurried in, apron on and carrying an empty salver and two metal jugs.

“Ha!” Peter crowed. “You got breakfast duties!”

“Yeah.” Nick refilled one jug with coffee from the urn and the other with hot water from the dispenser. “Pa claimed that as second born, it behoved me.”

“He would. So where is it?” Peter demanded.

“There! Look, can’t you? Need me to feed it to you, too?” Nick snapped. Then he sank onto a stool. “Sorry. Wow. It’s happened, and so young—I’ve turned into Dad.”

Mike snorted, and joined Peter in examining the large range cooker. Its main doors had notes taped to them saying DO NOT OPEN but one deep, wide warming drawer contained several stacks of French toast, smelling of cinnamon and vanilla, while a few jugs of maple syrup stood on the hob.

“Wait.” Peter pulled out one heap and turned from it to the table, where powdering sugar and dishes of berries waited. “This looks like… _Hilary!_ ” he called.

“Shhh!” called a girl’s voice from the annexe, and Hilary appeared, tossing off her apron and grabbing her coat. “You didn’t see me! I wasn’t here and didn’t do this!”

“Come back later, for stockings?” Nick asked.

“If I can,” she promised, straightening up the jugs in his hands and pushing him out of the swing door. “Happy Christmas!” came as she vanished out of the other door.

“Oh, that damn slacker Nicholas, using emotional manipulation to get someone to do his work for him,” said Peter on an exhale, then looked horrified at himself. “Jesus, Michael! I’m turning into Father too, just like Nick is!”

“Same thing happened at the Willises’,” Mike reminded him. “It’s probably confined to kitchens, babe.” He was more interested in any other platters of food that might be lurking in the range’s other compartments, and no sooner had he set every one he could find down on the table than there was a tumult at the front door of kids coming in from outdoors and adults exclaiming how wet they were.

“Brace yourself,” Peter warned Mike, seconds before the kitchen was overrun with people and ringing with the clamor of voices recounting the epic battle, the clatter of crockery as its participants grabbed plates, and the clinking of the metal jugs and sugar dredgers being fought over. Peter picked up a slice of the crispy bacon from its dish and held it to Mike’s lips for him to take a bite.

Chris paused in squirting cream onto the top of the mini tower of toast slices he’d forked onto his plate and stared at his brother and Mike, sitting close together at the head of the table, Mike eating from Peter’s hand.

“Yes?” Peter stared back.

“Nothing, man.” Chris shook his head. “I guess I just didn’t…”

“What? Know what fags did?”

“…think you’d touch bacon,” Chris finished.

“Aw, Chris, man, shame on you—you could’ve gone for a ‘handling meat’ joke there, and you blew it!” Nick exclaimed from where he was alternating slices of toast with layers of berries to make a wobbly-looking construction.

“An’ you gonna continue with _that_ joke? The last thing you just said?” Davy prompted Nick when he looked puzzled.

“God, no. Hey, it’s Christmas, guys!” Nick looked at them. “We’re cool, right?”

“It’s cool,” Matt said, hurriedly.

“I’m cool. We’re cool,” Chris added.

“You sound like you’re declaiming a verb,” Peter observed.

"And Matt and I are really sorry we had that stupid bet, used those ugly words."

Matt nodded, backing up Chris' words. "I guess we thought we were being funny, but some things, things that're important to people you love, you don't make jokes about. We know better now. Sorry, brother."

"Thank you," Peter said finally. He looked from one brother to another, assessing. “Team Thorkelson Huddle?”

Mike resisted the urge to steal Peter’s last slice of toast as the four brothers ran at one another from each corner of the room for some complicated and lengthy hug. Huh. Another visual echo—was this the origins of the Monkee hug?

“You really okay, brother?” Peter asked Chris, who nodded and sat again…to a smaller tower than he’d left, but he wasn’t about to remonstrate with Stacia.

“I _was_ kinda bummed when you formed your own tribe, away from ours,” he admitted, pointing his fork at Mike and Davy. “But it’s only natural, right?”

“ _Chris_. We'll always be brothers, and we're like quicksilver—we’ll just re-form. Wherever we are. Here or… Well. Wait until we open the presents,” Peter answered him, but looking at Mike. “And we should hurry—last one to finish sees to the dishes. House rules. Davy…why’ve you got two plates, one untouched?”

Davy nodded at the door, where Micky was just coming in, limping, dirty-looking, although he’d obviously washed up, and with four Band-Aids on one side of his face. “That’s why. You’ll never guess what happened to Mick.”

“Oh, I think we can,” Mike told him. “Ya fell off the roof, huh?”

"No!" Davy said, before Micky could reply, hardly able to speak for laughing. “He fell down the chimney!”


	17. Chapter Seventeen

Despite Peter having urged him to hurry, Mike doubled back in the midst of the horde exiting the kitchen, to re-enter the room. He spent a little time clearing away the breakfast detritus and loading the dishwasher, his awareness of what a guest owed his hosts only a part of it. He also wanted to keep out of John’s way, especially with the guy still growling about his missing itinerary and the complications this had caused. Mike’s plan was to sneak into the living room unnoticed and unremarked on. He…didn’t really succeed.

“Where did you get to?” Peter pounced.

“I was straightening up after breakfast.”

“Oh really?” John, listening in, had no qualms about joining in. “Well, if you’re more at ease doing that than this…” He indicated the mass of people Happy Christmas-ing and taking up and exchanging presents. “Then feel free to get to grips with the dining room, too.”

“Michael!” Cait swanned over, between John and Mike and Peter before Peter could retort and gave Mike a sweet-liquor-smelling kiss on the cheek. “Merry Christmas! Sherry?” She lifted the bottle and waggled it.

Mike shook his head. “Nuh-huh. Not one drop.”

“Oh, you will,” she promised. “Say, you’re the only one who hasn’t seen my lovely new coat yet.” That she didn’t bat an eyelash saying that didn’t surprise him, but did make him have to hide a grin. “What do you think?” Cat twirled.

“You look a _billion_ dollars,” Mike told her.

“You look a nice big chunk of change yourself, there.” Cait stroked the shoulder of his new shirt.

“Oh, we Dallas Nesmiths do love our finery,” Mike replied.

“What…” Peter shook his head. “I won’t ask.”

“Kind of a tradition to give clothes?” Mike asked, seeing another note that made up Peter replicated in their lives. Micky and Davy’s new duds were kinda like Matt’s and Chris’, only the latter’s showed more signs of wear. That would have been odd for new items of clothing, if Mike hadn’t supposed the two had unwrapped and worn their presents before today. Probably more than once, he judged, assessing the creases and stains. The pair of them unwrapped LPs, looked startled, then surreptitiously exchanged them with each other. Dang fools re-labeled their albums wrong, Mike guessed.

“Think fast, Petey!” called Stacia from her cross-legged seat under the tree, presiding over the heap of gifts, and skimmed a rectangular package over to him.

“Oh, groovy. My favorite soap!” Peter undid the wrapping and took a sniff.

“That’s from me!” said his Aunt Patty, receiving a kiss on the cheek in thanks. She frowned, poking at the bar. “You know, I could _swear_ those bars of soap from LaCelle Mill used to be bigger. I guess I’m getting old. That’s one of the first symptoms, isn’t it?”

She looked so down it made Mike scowl at Peter, who gave him a wide-eyed _what?_ look back. “You like your book, Mother?” he asked Ginia.

“Ummm!” she replied from around the lump of toffee John had broken off a slab for her, probably so he could bang it hard and noisily with the small metal hammer, Mike felt.

Each family was exchanging more gifts than just the lucky dip Santa one, Mike saw. Peter always got his parents books, and all four of them had contributed to this year’s. This one looked homemade, like typed pages someone had bound together, and not like something from a bookstore.

“Mother specializes in early-to-mid-twentieth century American poetry,” Peter explained. “So I’ve given her a just-written feminist critique of the movement.”

“Do you know this academic?” Ginia asked, pointing to the name typed on the front cover.

Peter nodded. “I went to a talk she gave at a skills co-op I belong to. When she said she was working on this, I thought of you.”

“She had a valid and interesting position, one she seems to defend well.” Ginia held out her glass and let her mother refill it. “I’d like to talk to her.”

“Maybe Peter could bring her some time,” John said, opening his book.

Peter bristled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“What it said.” John closed his book, sitting up.

“Oh, stockings!” Mike pointed to where the younger people were descending on the row of woollen Christmas stockings hanging up, once the clock chimed the hour. Seemed it was time. “Now I get what Nick meant.”

“What…were you imagining?” Peter’s attention was diverted, as Mike had intended.

“Well…” Mike licked his bottom lip, which had dried. It was hot in the room, and the number of bodies and the volume of noise and level of excitement added to the heat.

“So…you like stockings?” Peter murmured.

“Depends on the legs,” Mike muttered back. “Not on yours, for instance. _They_ look dynamite in short shorts that draw attention to your thighs. Oh, not the—”

“Bright red ones. Yes, I still can’t find those.” Peter shot him a look. “You know, Christmas is a good time for confession. Like, confessing to hiding another person’s vivid…cherry-red… tight…ass-hugging…crotch-cupping shorts because you didn’t want anyone else seeing…me in them? No, wait. That’s not right. Because you didn’t trust yourself seeing me in them?”

Mike squirmed, but clamped his lips together and said nothing.

“So,” Peter continued, wafting a magazine to bring a breeze to Mike’s flushed face and dotting a Kleenex at the beads of sweat broken out on his forehead. “No stockings on legs like mine. Now, on legs like Micky’s…”

“Oh, beyond boss.” Mike froze, mid-nod, as did Peter, both of them blinking to clear their vision, their minds’ eyes, of images. Mike coughed, but shook his head when Cait waved the sherry bottle. “So, woollen Christmas stockings,” he said, hurriedly, indicating the mass of kids delving into them. “They sure look festive.”

“Ginia puts a lot into them,” John informed him.

“I see that. They look full.”

“I meant she collects and distributes all the toys and games and makes all the candies herself.” John rolled his eyes like a teener at With a Twist.

That explained the coffee table whose surface was covered in the huge slab of dark-brown toffee, the white-powdered Turkish delight, and the— “Honeycomb candy?” Mike asked.

“Sponge candy.” Peter snapped off a piece of the puffy, crunchy brown-sugar treat and broke it in two, taking half himself and popping the other piece in Mike’s mouth for him. John glared at this, making Mike happy Peter’d used his fingers rather than hold the piece between his lips, for Mike to bite or…suck it for himself.

“The violet creams are just for me, remember,” Cait called. “And Michael, I don’t think you should have any sherry.”

Which of course made Mike want a glass, but he resisted, just as he ignored the light of challenge in the elderly woman’s eye.

“Mom went to classes for confectionary making,” her proud son Nick informed them. “But we only got the benefits of it on birthdays and holidays. I wish I still had a stocking just to pig out on the fudge in the toe part. It’s tuff, man!”

“Oh! I got some peanut butter fudge!” Micky yelled, ripping a ribbon and untwisting parchment paper from a fat square. He licked it straightaway, his tongue bright pink, making all the little cousins stare and _ewww_ , although Mike betted they’d be copying him in a second.

“That’s cool, babe,” he answered. “Davy, what fudge d’you get?”

“ _Chocolate._ ” Davy’s round face held every ounce of the rapture of a British kid who’d grown up under rationing.

A klaxon blasted out, right by them, making John slop his drink and swear. “ _Must_ you?” he demanded, glaring at…Peter, who’d sounded the air horn. Huh. They had one like that in the pad too.

“Yes. Jigsaw race!” Peter yelled, making his father spill his drink again.

Mike watched people rummaging in their stockings for a jigsaw puzzle piece and race to a glass-topped table in one corner of the room.

“They gotta complete a jigsaw, but there’s no picture?” he guessed.

“And not all the pieces,” Peter answered. “Watch…”

“Hey, I don’t got no piece—I got this bit of paper with a riddle on it instead?” Micky held it up. “It— _eeep_!” His voice cut out, the breath _whooshed_ from him when he was wrestled to the ground by a half-dozen bodies fighting for the slip of paper.

“Oh, it’s a clue to where the missing piece is?”

“No, where the next clue is!” Peter informed Mike. “There’s a prize for getting the last piece and completing the puzzle.”

“And the race is timed, and records kept year to year,” Nick added. “It’s—”

“A competition,” Mike finished before he could. Most things were here. Like the game of spinning tops those not jigsaw hunting, or who got wooden tops instead of puzzle pieces in their stockings, were playing on a plastic sheet in another corner. The players included Davy, his cheek bulging with fudge like a goddam hamster. Game? More of a knockout battle.

“Are those butterscotch drops?” Mike wished he was playing. He grooved on those candies. “Like, prizes for whoever stays spinning the longest?”

“Yep, but there’s rounds…” Matt yanked at his string, got his top spinning. “The winner plays the next winner, to the final death match.”

“And there’s a jacks tournament?” Mike indicated the other small group huddled around a cloth.

“Speed race, yes.” Peter ignored his father calling something out about that had better not be his stopwatch. He cracked a walnut from a dish, breaking it in half and holding his hand up for Mike to pluck a section from his palm first.

Mike was so busy cataloging things he was coming to understand about Peter, after seeing scenes like this, the environment in which he’d grown up, that he almost missed Peter’s action. Peter was doing this a lot lately, helping Mike to something before himself, tempering his free-for-all or first-come-best-served ethos. He’d done it that morning, with breakfast, even.

“Thanks, babe,” Mike whispered, mouthing “ _Love you,_ ” to go with it. He guessed Peter would understand. Mike also pretended not to see Micky consoling himself after his fall and more recent attack with a dish of cocoanut ice that was probably supposed to be for everyone.

“Aw, Mom!” Matt came over, pulling something soft that was wrapped in a fold of tissue paper from his stocking. “I’m too old for Mitten Mates—I don’t _wear_ mittens anymore!”

“Oh.” Ginia placed a bookmark in her book. “Is it time for that? Well, you’ll have to play, or there’ll be an odd number. How about you donate your pair to charity, after?”

He nodded.

“Peter?” Ginia asked. “Do you want to—”

The clanging of Peter striking a beater around a large triangle drowned out the rest of her words, and made John wince again.

“What’s this now?” Mike asked, when Erin pulled at his sleeve and handed over her tissue-papered whatever.

“Pin it to me!” she demanded. “But I can’t see it.”

“Turn around.” Peter made a twirl gesture, for Mike to safety-pin the pink and white knitted mitten to the girl’s back. “It’s a game, matching knitted mitten mates.”

“Try saying that five times quickly,” Davy commented. “People have to find the other half of their pair of mittens, yeah?”

“Without seeing what theirs looks like? How?” Mike took another sip of the egg broth or whatever it was Cait had slid down the coffee table to him. It was sweet and strong.

“Asking yes and no questions! But only one of each person at a time…” Peter pointed to where Patrick was asking Elsa if his mitten was mostly blue, then Helen if it had stars of a different color, both questions based on their mittens. “And you have to remember all the information, and what other people’s mittens look like, if you want to find your match quickly.”

Kinda like brain training, Mike thought. Kids in this family grew up sharp and quick—and strong. He laughed. “All this matching—bet your preference for mismatched socks is in rebellion to it.”

“No. I raid the odd sock marriage bureau for those. Really,” Peter said. “Mom puts any socks that come through the wash without a partner in a bureau. They can stay for a time limit of a year, and most of them find their mate in that time.”

“Then what? What if they don’t?” Micky was hanging onto Peter’s words. He loved a story.

“If they don’t find their match in a year? I take them!” Peter announced, showing his odd socks in his moccasins.

“Really?” Ginia broke in. “Is that why I never have any these days? I used to make them into toys, but I haven’t had any for years now!”

Mike sat again in the midst of the adults in armchairs and sofas and finished his drink. “More, Michael?” Cait offered, hefting a large jug of the creamy drink.

“I wouldn’t,” Peter said. “It’s about sixty percent fortified wine. Sherry, in other words.”

 _Oh._ “I think I’ll get more coffee,” Mike replied, directing his words at Cait. “And see, I was right about not playing cards against your family.”

“Cards? No, Christmas coloring competition,” Nick replied. “Everyone got their crayons?”

Micky held up his packet from his stocking and followed the kids to sit cross-legged around low tables, where sheets of paper were being laid out.

“The theme is Christmas Fifty Years From Now,” Nick announced. “So, Christmas in the year 2006!”

A chorus of _oohs_ greeted this, Micky’s amongst them, and heads bent to their tasks, Micky’s first.

“Good to have some quiet activities, keep the kids amused,” commented Davy. “What do the adults get?”

“Miniatures,” called an uncle, holding a small bottle up. “Keeps us quiet.”

Mike stared. It was kind big to be a miniature. It wasn’t like you’d get on a plane or in a hotel room minibar. These were more like demis. He betted the adults didn’t have to jump through hoops to get them, either, although the image was so crazy, he laughed.

“Something amusing you?” John asked.

“Nope. Just happy,” Mike replied.

“That’s the spirit.” Cait approached with her jug.

“And that jug is where it’s staying,” Mike told her. “Hey, Pete, didn’t you get Chris a present, you said? What was it?”

“Ah.” Peter sat on the arm of the chair Mike was sitting in and leaned down to him, too cute for words. “You know how you love me and indulge me in everything?”

“Yeah.” Mike nodded, a fond smile stealing over his face.

“Well, this is a little bit…”

“Big? You said,” Mike prompted.

“Yeah…” Peter pulled an envelope free from his pocket. “Chris? I didn’t give you your gift yet. C’m here. Matt and Nick too.”

Closely watched by his father, Chris opened it up. “A voucher?” He looked up. “For a month’s stay with you in LA?”

“Full board and lodging for you and Matt next July. I know you wouldn’t want to leave Matt alone here, but you’re old enough to go now, see the world, figure out what you like and want. Matt too. So you’d be in LA while Nick does the summer course he wants to in Art and Design at UCLA. I’d offer him a place to stay too, but I guess he’d prefer the dorm room on campus that goes with the bursary, right, Nick?” Peter looked at his three brothers, sitting on the carpet between the chairs.

“Peter?” Mike asked, not liking the heavy silence descending in this half of the room.

“Davy, Micky, you okay with Chris and Matt staying at the pad in July?” Peter called, nodding at the _sure_ and _the more the merrier_ responses he got. “It’s fine with you, isn’t it?” He pressed into Mike’s side, making Mike loop an arm over his shoulders.

“Yes, but that’s not exactly the point here.” Mike spoke slowly, watching John from the corners of his eyes…and seeing him preparing for battle.


	18. Chapter Eighteen

“You’re joking, of course, but that’s a rather cruel trick to play on vulnerable and credulous younger people,” John observed, his conversational tone contrasting with his two younger sons’ exclamations and excitement.

“I’m not kidding, guys.” Peter shook his head at one confused and one disappointed younger brother before turning back to his father. “Why would you say that?”

“Why? Why? You can’t possibly imagine we’d allow them to—” With a harsh, sawn-off breath, John switched tracks. “And so we move from biology to, specifically, anthropology?”

“How so?”

Mike didn’t like this trying to out-polite-each-other thing Peter and his father had getting on. He didn’t trust it, for all Peter’s brothers sat, biting their nails and swivelling their heads from brother to father like it was a spectator sport. Could be worse, he reasoned—if this was back in the pad, the spectators would’ve have popcorn and cold drinks by now.

“How so? In that a child should leave his family to form his own, when he’s of age and …if he can.”

“I have. I did.” Peter dropped his hand onto Mike’s leg and raised his chin to indicate Davy and Micky over the other side of the room.

“Then why attempt to steal this one?” John flashed back

“We stick together, like a tribe. We always had to.” Peter dropped his voice on the last sentence, but John heard it, as he was meant to. Peter had mentioned more than once the number of times the family had moved, when he was a kid, and hadn’t Cait talked about Peter and Nick being sent to boarding school?

“Is that so? Well, sorry to inform you I won’t have Chris idling his summer away. He has college work and should be learning responsibility, namely how to balance academic commitments with earning a living.” John folded his arms.

“I can get him a job at any of the clubs we play at on the Strip. What kind of music’s your best bag, Chris?”

“A _club_? Oh, and let me guess—Matt too, happily underage in some dive, some den, breaking the law nightly, hoping the place doesn’t get raided?”

“Matt, remember me telling you about the groovy burger bar on the beach near the pier, not far from our pad?” Peter ignored his father, in a way Mike didn’t think was wise.

“Where everyone’s name begins with B?”

Peter nodded. “There’s work there, and it’s where it’s at in the summer.”

“Cool! I can be Bat, and Chris, Bris!” Matt cheered.

“Peter, _really_! You actually think you’ll be a suitable guardian?” John scoffed.

Peter tightened his splayed fingers on Mike’s leg. “With help.”

Mike wanted to close his eyes then, in case any shrapnel from the explosion flew in them.

John drew himself up. “You were always wilful, and now you’re empowered. Enabled.”

“Me?” Mike asked, even as _keep out of this_ , _keep out of this_ beat in his head.

“Yes, you! You both agreed just now that you indulge him,” John snapped.

“In what, following my own path?” Peter slid to his feet and grated out a laugh. “It’s so wild to see you, a so-called, or self-styled, liberal, left-wing intellectual freaking out when you have to interact with a long-hair who isn’t a student or a junior professor or doesn’t have a job you understand or whose parents you don’t socialize with!”

“You wanna keep focused here, babe?” Mike muttered,

Peter was—and on a roll. “Professor. Ah, yes. Talking of, I’m sorry you couldn’t deal with academe not being my groove. That I found the weight of it crushing and struck out on my own. Just think, if I’d joined the ivory tower elite, the way you’re molding Matt at the moment, you’d have all four of us made in your image.”

“Bro, maybe you should take a chill pill.” Matt was on his feet, tugging at Peter’s sleeve.

“Nick’s far more enthusiastic about art than literature. Did you know that? Did you ever think to encourage him to pursue that field, as a career?” Peter continued. “No, because you’re not really a liberal. More a limousine liberal, really, in coming from money, marrying money, and having live-in staff. But really, you’re very traditional, very strict in your approach to your children—”

“Or not strict enough.” John stood, looking from Peter to Mike.

“If you think I’m a bad influence and want me to leave, I will.” _What?_ Mike added silently to Peter. What else could he do?

“And I’ll go with you, Michael. But not before asking Father to explain why you took against Michael.”

Yep, the pawn-on-chessboard feeling was back. In fact, the squares of the board were hemming Mike in.

“ _Michael?_ ” John pointed at him. “He’s merely your latest rebellion, Peter. We’ve had what, a Jew, a coloured woman, and now…”

“What? Someone poor? Not our type?”

“Hey!” Mike took a breath in, to quash the irritation rising in him. Jesus! From pawn to punching bag—with Peter landing some of the blows.

“I think this behavior is a sign you’re getting to be more of a snob and more inflexible in your old age.” Peter was almost gloating. “And less articulate. You can’t even explain—”

“I know who he is and what he does!” John shouted.

A heavy, hard silence formed at his words.

“Well I for sure as fuck don’t,” Mike replied, breaking it. He glowered at all the faces turned toward him. “What, first one to cuss loses, that it?”

“I got this, Mikey.” Micky jumped over a table and a low stool to land in their midst and pat Mike on the arm. “He musta heard you on the phone to J!” He ignored Peter’s, “ _What?_ ” “Mr. T, LA folks just _talk_ flirty. I think it’s a hangover from the cinema industry, all that eye contact and biting the lower lip?”

 _Please don’t do it,_ Mike silently prayed, but to no avail. He closed his eyes so he didn’t see Micky illustrating his words. His mime was disturbing on several levels.

“You know, like here it’s all cold weather? There it’s heat,” Micky continued. “Here you got, what, syrup and seafood? There’s it’s all sex and seduction and…” Feeling the weight of his audience and their lack of receptivity, he stopped.

“Yeah, I got nothing, Mike. Sir, you got a problem with Mike, you tell him.” He patted Mike’s arm again, and with a, “You’re on your own,” was gone. “Oh, and by the way, it was two colored women, both real foxy, and both at the same time,” floated in his slipstream.

“Those sexy chick singers?” Nick asked, his eyes the size of saucers.

“ _Fuck,_ ” breathed Matt, his tone one of reverence.

“Looks like he did, little bro,” Chris stage-whispered.

“And just like in that skin flick we sneaked in to s—”

Chris’ elbow to Matt’s ribs knocked the breath from the rest of his words. Mike glared at the trio when they flopped down in mock bows to their big brother, who’d attained godhead in their eyes.

“Micky’s right about one thing,” he said. _And that ain’t a sentence I say very often._ “Sir, I think you got something against me. And I don’t think it’s just that Peter and I are together—seems you accepted his choices before.” Which didn’t hurt. Not much. Not yet. “And I get the notion it’s more’n you being angry at me for precipitating this, by being with Peter.”

“By giving me stability and confidence.” Peter threw an arm around him.

“So I’d appreciate you telling me.”

“ _We’d_ apprc—”

“Yes, all _right_!” Mike and John said at the same time to Peter.

“In private,” John added, scowling.

“Naturally,” Peter agreed, making it clear that where Mike went, he did too. “After you,” he said politely to Mike, once John had stomped past them, to fall in behind him.

“This in case I try’n sneak off?” Mike muttered, feeling like he was in a forced march. He felt a little better when Peter took a long step forward to walk beside him. “I wouldn’t,” he assured Peter. “I don’t know the terrain well enough. Don’t even know the house.”

Well, he was familiar enough with its layout to know to know they were going to John’s study, where John, having drawn the drapes across the bookshelf-lined room’s windows, now switched on an AM transistor radio. “Do you two want to resolve your contention first?” he inquired, gesturing from Mike to Peter while he strode around, waving the portable radio that he couldn’t seem to tune to a station, or perhaps the batteries were dead.

“ _Our_ contention?”

“You seemed upset at Mike talking on the phone to a person called J,” John answered his son, a butter-wouldn’t-melt expression on his face.

“Oh. Michael?”

“He called me,” Mike began.

“Well, I can see this might drag on. Perhaps you want to get into it later,” John suggested.

“There’s nothing to get into. You know that.” Mike took a seat on the other side of John’s desk to where its owner would sit. _I wouldn’t bother and he wouldn’t dare._

 _I know._ Peter’s smile went from cat-like to smugger than his father’s in milliseconds. “We’re fine, Father,” he told him, dropping into the chair next to Mike’s.

John finished pacing the room and came to sit, leaving the small radio on the mantlepiece, where he’d been fiddling with it last.

“Sir, do you want me to leave?” Fuck cat-like—Mike was tired of pussyfooting around.

John’s reply came with blunt-force impact. “Yes.”

“To leave _me_?” And Peter’s came with equal power.

“No. Leave here.”

“So you’ve been subjecting him to some sort of test? Like, how much crap can he take? And if Michael storms out, then he doesn’t have genuine feelings for me? Is that it?”

“For God’s sake, son, you’re not in _Hollywood Hills High_ now!” John scolded.

“You…saw that?” Peter’s voice was high with incredulity.

“Yes of course we saw that!”

 _Don’t ask if he’s team Lulu or team Jeanie_ , Mike mentally begged Peter. No, Peter wasn’t Micky, easily distracted to that extent.

“If Michael leaves because he’s driven out, I go with him,” Peter informed his father. “My choice of partner isn’t welcome, then neither am I. So is that what you want? To make Michael spilt up with me and make me unhappy?”

The crack in Peter’s voice made Mike understand that this was about him, or rather them, MichaelandPeter, rather than about Peter and his father. “Hey there,” he murmured. “Won’t ever split on you. Love you too damn much.”

“Of course I don’t want you to be unhappy.” It must have been hard for John to speak with his teeth gritted like that. “I just need Michael to leave here.”

“And never darken your door again?” Peter mocked, but Mike barely heard it.

He was too busy belatedly registering certain details that had almost escaped him in the heat of things. While the two were occupied, he slipped from his chair and past the window with its closed drapes to pick up the AM radio. It was tuned to the high end of spectrum, around 1600 kilohertz, and not to a station—the fizzing of background noise greeted him when he switched the transistor on. 

He thought over the words John had used— _not the kind of person I can associate with_ and _I know what he is and what he does_. Mike _really_ didn’t like the way it was shaping and what form it could take. He thought quickly, going over what he knew of the man’s background, his heritage, and hoped, mainly for Pete’s sake, that the gamble he was about to take paid off.

Mike took his seat again, getting John’s attention before he spoke. “ _I_ wasn’t expecting Sam.” He watched John closely, wanting to see any reaction. What he saw had him continuing, “You know I’m a friend of his. That much is obvious. Oh, and your son knows I am, too.”

“Michael?” Peter stared at him.

“So go ahead.” Mike waved a hand. “Tell Peter why I can’t be here.” He wasn’t sure of the hows and the whys, but took a risk they’d be better than the _what the fucks?_

“I…” John hesitated, looking from him to his son.

“Father, for God’s sake,” Peter snapped.

“Michael’s an officer,” John blurted.

The CIA jargon made Mike inhale sharply. “No, I’m an agent. And that barely and temporarily.” _Because the CIS? Small beer. And as soon as I pay off the favors I accrued, I’m out._ Mike exhaled.

“Fine, an agent. For some branch of the secret services and I can’t associate with him, much less have him in the house,” John finished, as if Mike hadn’t spoken.

“What, you’re anti-establishment now?” Peter mocked. He snapped to. “Wait. How do you know?”

“Someone visited him early yesterday morning and told him,” Mike cut in. It made sense—someone snooping around the barn to spy on them, the official-looking car, John’s change in demeanor toward him when he knew which one of Peter’s three friends Mike was…

“Why?”

“Because I can’t be around…that sort of person, and that’s twice now, the same person, and so I got a visit. So you see why I wanted him to leave when I found out. I couldn’t just come out and ask him to go,” John continued, speeding up as Peter geared up. “I didn’t know if you knew that about him, and wouldn’t want you to find out in a way that hurt you.”

Mike put a hand over Peter’s where he had it on the arm of the chair, digging his fingers into it.

“Why?” Peter asked, his voice deadly calm and frighteningly level. “Why can’t you be around an intelligence agent, John?”

When Peter’s father didn’t answer, Mike thought again about how John had closed the drapes, so no one could see in and how he’d gone around the room with an AM signal, the amplitude of which changed in the environment, unlike FM, to check that the static wasn’t buzzing as it did when it detected pulses of electromagnetic interference—interference that could be made by a listening device. Not knowing if it was wise, he nevertheless took over. “Because he is one, Peter.”

“You’re a, a fucking _spy_? A government secret services agent?” Peter roared at his father.

Mike caught him seconds before he lunged over the desk toward John. “Woah there!” Mike gripped Peter hard, trapping his arms down the sides of his body. “I know you’re against all that, and I know—”

“That I hate being lied to, and that’s what he did, for my entire childhood? Because I fucking knew it, Michael!” Peter stopped struggling to get free, but still turned on his father. “I knew, suspected, always, and you just told me I was too imaginative, that I lived in a fantasy world I invented. But Washington, Detroit, Germany, France, Central America, South America—it was all true!”

“Pete, be reasonable,” Mike tried.

“Reasonable? I’m supposed to be reasonable after he spent years lying to me? Or perhaps you think I should be reasonable after he had me hypnotized, to make me forget what I suspected, or, actually, what I _knew_ , so I didn’t give his game away?”

“ _What?_ ” Mike demanded, aghast.

“Son, that’s not at all what—”

“No?” Peter wouldn’t let his father get a word in. “So it was for a darker reason even than that, as I sometimes thought, like part of a CIA black ops program designed to train loyal agents’ kids, implanting what they needed in their brain to make them suitable for drafting into the agency once they hit adulthood? Answer me!” he yelled.


	19. Chapter Nineteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took a bit of a turn for the silly...

Mike looked from father to son, not knowing what to believe or even think. But whatever had happened in the past, Peter was starting to hyperventilate now, his face pale and his hand going to his stuttering chest as he fought for more than quick, short intakes of air.

“Peter?” Mike said, alarmed.

“Out of the way.” In a heartbeat, his father had taken Mike’s place, standing before Peter, his hands on his upper arms and his face close to his son’s. “Breathe,” he said. “Deep breath in, son. In through the nose, out through the mouth. That’s it… breathe with me and Michael.”

A sharp glare had Mike doing it too, and within seconds, Peter was breathing normally, and his color returning.

“Peter.” John rubbed Peter’s shoulders. “About what you were alleging. Don’t be—”

“If you say hysterical,” Peter began.

“You can get a little worked up, shotgun,” Mike said. “Don’t look at me like that—he’s your _father_! There’s gotta be an explanation.”

“I was hypnotized!” Peter cried. “I can prove it—I found the cans of reel-to-reel tapes, neatly labeled with my name and that of the ‘therapist’ and dates of the ‘sessions’, in your safe. Explain that!”

“Peter, it’s not…” John took a couple of paces and sat on a small sofa. “Michael, maybe you’d like to leave us? This is a little…delicate.”

“No way.” Peter sat opposite John and pulled Mike down too.

“Guess I’m staying,” Mike answered John.

“Fine.” John smoothed the fabric of his pants over his knees. “You underwent a course of hypnosis treatment, yes. Why? Well, do you remember the night-time…uh, problems you had? We tried hypnosis as a last resort for your, well, nocturnal enur—”

“ _All right!_ ” Peter hissed, flicking a sidelong glance at Mike

“Noctambulism,” John continued, smooth as butter. “Sleepwalking. You suffered from that too. We tried everything, such as electric buzzers…”

And shocks? Mike wondered, recalling Peter’s familiarity with the device when they’d come across it, although Peter had mentioned it had been used on…one of his brothers. _Little liar._

“Waking him every hour…tying him by the ankle to the bed…”

That that was something Mike had thought of more than once had him dropping his gaze even lower and fighting not to whistle in faux innocence. He’d missed a bit—

“I swear that your mother or I were always present in the room, Peter. And the tapes were to play to you at night, when you were going to sleep. And no, before you ask, it wasn’t hypnopedia. Sleep—”

“Learning. I got it,” Mike told John, when he addressed the last bit to him.

“And I wonder why I had those kinds of problems,” Peter muttered, in a voice loud enough to be audible. “Well, be that as it may—”

“It is,” John cut across Peter.

Jeez, this family was stubborn.

“It doesn’t change the fact that you’re an ‘officer’ as you call it. That you lied to me!” Peter finished.

“Pete, he really couldn’t have told you,” Mike tried.

“And those lies made me doubt my perception of reality, my own intelligence, my capacity for rational thought.”

“For that, I’m so sorry, Peter. And was. I’m no longer.”

“Not since you settled here, right?” Mike thought back to what Cait had said. “And so never associating with any other agent is what, part of your conditions for being left alone?” _Protected?_ He thought the last but didn’t say it. “What were you?”

“OSS,” John whispered.

Mike would’ve plumped for that, if he’d been a betting man. “The Office of Strategic Services,” he explained to Peter.

“Sounds very bureaucratic,” Peter sniffed.

“I guess they didn’t have much time for fancy names during the war. That’s when it started.” Mike thought it best not to tell Peter it was a forerunner to the CIA. “It was mostly co-ordinating all the armed forces branches’…activities, right?”

John nodded. “Mostly intel gathering and analysis.”

“And after the war?” Peter, maths whizz, was working out timelines in his head.

“Things didn’t just finish because hostilities did. The OSS got submerged into the alphabet soup of the intelligence community. I was in the State Department.” He didn’t say which bureau or what an economist might have been doing. “Yes, for a while after you children came along.” He pre-empted Peter’s accusation. “But things in motion that I was involved with didn’t simply finish. I couldn’t simply leave.”

“But when I was ten—”

“Is it necessary to go into details? I couldn’t say then and can’t now.” John was suddenly pouring them all drinks on the stand next to him. Mike blinked. Where— _Oh._ What he’d assumed to be a wooden globe on a stand was a drinks cabinet. He wondered how many other things throughout the house were. He accepted a heavy tumbler half-full of whiskey and took a gulp.

Peter accepted his glass but cradled it rather than drank it, still looking angry. Mike saw an image of the boarding school he’d hated, maybe some official one for government workers’ kids, to where he’d been sent away when he reached middle-school age, because he was too old to fool anymore.

“And so your father left the service and you all settled here,” Mike commented, keeping his voice neutral. “Babe, I don’t suppose John had much choice about joining up, because of the war. We all have to do stuff in wartime. Could be fighting, if it’s a war you believe in, or…not fighting, if not. Which can mean a different sort of service…”

“Oh.” Peter looked startled. “You mean like…”

 _Me_. Mike gave a slight nod and Peter took a mouthful of his drink when Mike did, Peter grimacing. He really didn’t drink.

“I was young.” John swirled his drink around in its tumbler. “I was loyal. I did my duty by my country. When I got out, we came here.”

Mike couldn’t help snagging on the word choices and what wasn’t said.

“Like, lying low?” Peter said it. “So this farm is what, like a cover, where you have to keep your head down, not contact anyone from that world?”

Mike had been thinking the same, and wondering about Inge and Paul, why they’d left Germany, where they’d first started working for the family, to return to the States with them. Was there more to that than the Thorkelsons being good employers? “Least said, soonest mended, huh?” He aimed his comment at all of them.

“It’s Mother I feel sorry for.” Peter slammed his glass down. “You lied to her too. Dragged her around from pillar to post under false pretenses when she could have been focusing on her piano or even building her career in academia. You almost ruined my life, but did ruin hers. I bet she doesn’t have any idea why she was forced to uproot over and over and—”

“Peter.” John tried to mitigate his sharp voice by stretching out a supplicant hand. “Don’t speak to your mother about this. Please, son.”

Peter shook off his father’s hand. “She needs to know the truth. She deserves that!”

“No, Peter.” Mike shook his head. He suspected this was more to do with Peter searching out more fuel to feed the residual embers of anger he felt toward his father. “This could cause a rift, and family should stay together.”

“Even on a foundation of lies?” Peter’s cool look at Mike brought back how Peter had felt when he’d discovered Mike was working for the CIS, and laying false trails to cover it up. “Because I thought you agreed with me that people shouldn’t be lied to, but should know all the facts to make up their own minds.”

He stood, Mike rising a second later to stop him doing whatever it was he was planning, only to be stopped by John’s hand around his wrist.

“Let him.” John sighed. “Maybe it’s time to pull aside the curtain. And if I know Ginia, she’ll be on top of things.”

Sure enough, Peter stepped back when he opened the door, because his mother stood there. “Mom? You were listening?”

“Not exactly.” Ginia did a visual sweep of the room and spied the small radio. She took it and switched it on, finding a station and placing the transistor on the floor right up against the bottom of the door, the speaker facing out. “But I don’t want anyone else doing so.”

“Did you hear what he said? What he admitted to?” Peter insisted.

“I didn’t have to.” She faced her son, her face composed and yet compassionate and caring, and Mike got it a heartbeat before Peter spoke again.

“You knew.”

“More than that, shotgun.” Mike stood next to Peter, for any support he could give.

“How much more?” Peter demanded.

Ginia cupped Peter’s face, her eyes on his, calm and the same shade as his, Mike saw. “You were a part of it, along with your husband,” he guessed.

“Technically, I was his boss.” Her lips tilting into a grin very like Peter’s, Ginia motioned with her head over to John. “His case handler.”

“Oh, here we go. Here we bloody go!” John was on his feet, striding over. “And would you care to explain why you did better than me, came out a higher grade than me, got promoted over me? Yes, let’s tell them about Slimeball Simmonds.”

“Who’s—”

“Oh, also known as Besotted Simmonds. Our case officer,” John answered a confused Peter.

“Your spotter? Recruiter?” Mike tried to detangle the jargon.

John nodded, his eyes locked with Ginia’s. “And he certainly spotted Virginia all right. Certainly wanted to recruit _her_.”

“Are you saying…” Ginia drew herself up toe to toe with John. “That I wasn’t capable of acing the course? That I didn’t earn my top grades? Didn’t have the right stuff?” _Think carefully before you answer,_ her flashing eyes and flared nostrils said.

Mike dragged Peter out of the line of fire.

“No, no, of course not,” John blustered. “You proved that a hundred times over. But, you can’t deny Slimy Simmonds had the hots for you!”

“ _Dad!_ ” Peter protested, shocked.

“Well he did! Spineless Simmonds, who let your mother walk all over him!”

 _He doesn’t mean literally, babe_ , Mike tried to assure Peter…hoping he was right.

“If you call begging me on bended knee to marry him ‘having the hots’ for me—”

“Mom?” Peter’s shock went up a few degrees. “You—”

“It’s all right, son. She was engaged. She didn’t marry him. Not Dickless Dickie Simmonds.” John’s face shone with triumph.

“No, I never made it to my engagement party, did I?” Ginia asked her husband. “Not once someone _finally_ managed to put what he’d _finally_ learned in training into practice and _meeuugh_!”

John grabbing her to dip her low, as if they were ballroom dancing, then leaning down over her to kiss her stopped her words. Mike was kinda glad about that. He didn’t think he really wanted to know how John had stopped Virginia showing up for her own engagement party and turned her affections to him instead. Mike reached a hand up to under Peter’s chin to close his mouth for him.

When John pulled her upright, Ginia giggled and patted at her hair to settle it. “But please don’t think I was prevented from reaching the dizzy heights by John, or convention, or anything.” She sat on the sofa and patted the cushion next to her for Peter. “I really only poured myself into…things because I thought I couldn’t have children. My side of the family has never been very fecund and I was told I probably wouldn’t be able to have a child.”

“But…” Peter pointed to the row of photographs on the mantlepiece and on the desk, most of them showing the four boys.

“Yes! That was so curious, wasn’t it, John?”

John looked as though he had his own choice of adjectives for it. Mike had a brief lunatic moment of wondering if Slimeball Simmonds had looked identical to John, Ginia having a type, but kept it to himself.

“It came about while we were in South America. In the rain forest, to be precise. We met with a tribe and their _bruja_. A healer, you could say, who sent us to a _feticeiro_ , a sort of alternative medicine practitioner…”

 _Or, a witch and witch doctor._ Again, Mike said nothing.

“And we went through a sort of ceremony and got an amulet. And as long as the charm held power, we…well, we had four boys in six years, and then it lost its charge.”

 _Bet John was glad about that,_ Mike thought, not meeting his eye. John gulped the rest of his drink, then Peter’s. Mike sipped his and wished he hadn’t when Ginia added, “We kept trying though.”

“Ginia wanted a big family. I suppose it’s why she, well, we, try to keep you close,” John admitted.

“So you didn’t have your children so close together to get it out of the way and concentrate on your career as soon as possible?” Peter asked, his voice small.

“No!” Ginia replied. “Is that what you thought? I went back to college and started teaching to have something to do. Not that I don’t enjoy it, of course. But having boys—you practically raised yourselves, in a tribe, and I couldn’t really get a look in.”

“And to dispel another fallacy you hold, I never wanted Ezra as a son, in your place,” John announced.

“Are you sure?” Peter sounded bitter, making Mike understand this was an old argument. “He’s cultured, a university professor, defers to you…”

“And your father would be bored stiff with that in a day!” Mike had to exclaim, not believing Peter couldn’t see that. “Babe, John needs you, just as much as you need him.”

Peter stared at Mike, then laughed. “Why do I feel you’re about to come out with down-home saying about fish in a waterfall or a racoon sitting on a barrel, to illustrate that?”

“Shucks, I don’t rightly know,” Mike replied, grinning.

“Neither of you are good communicators _and_ you try to one-up the other.” Ginia shook her head. “Like that hair game. Michael, John said a few years back he’d send money regularly for Peter to get his hair cut so he had no excuse for looking like a beatnik, and that he wanted before and after photos as proof. Well, what does Peter do in response?”

“Gets the slightest trim possible, so there’s barely any difference in the pictures,” Mike answered.

“The pictures that John keeps, labeled, in an album just as he leaves space in the trophy cabinet for Peter’s gold records – he really believes you’ll get them,” Ginia assured him.

“And you watched me on the TV show,” Peter recalled.

“We both did. Both of them, the LA music one and the teen drama. I liked _TripleH_ ,” Ginia said. “I’m team Lulu, by the way.” She sighed. “I did want him to marry a girl, preferably Hilary, so I’d have a daughter as well.”

“Sorry, ma’am,” Mike said.

“Oh, no, don’t be—if it’s a man, I’m glad it’s you. Someone capable and interesting, who loves music. And it shines from you how much you care for him, you know? And loving you has made Peter less selfish.” She ignored the, “ _Really?_ ” comment from her husband. “Just, you know, I wanted another woman in the family.”

“Mom—Ginia— you study mid-twentieth-century poetry, not nineteenth century novels of manners: there’s no rule says it has to be the eldest first!” Peter told her.

“Oh!” Ginia looked taken aback. “Yes, well, just I _know_ Hilary and she knows us, and where everything is in the house.”

“And she’s dating Nick. I can believe neither of you noticed! Call yourselves spies?” Peter guffawed.

‘“Children begin by loving their parents. Then they judge them. And rarely, if ever, do they forgive them.’” John and Ginia quoted it together, like a prayer they consoled themselves with.

“I…forgive you.” Peter looked from one to the other.

“For what?” John scowled, but for old times’ sake, Mike felt. _Hoped._

“Well, come on.” Ginia finished hugging Peter and wiped her eyes. “This is a day of celebration. And we’d better practice our duet, for the family entertainment later, Peter. To the music room!”

Muttering, “Clean hands, no food or drink, and don’t move anything,” Peter followed her.

Mike went to follow too, stopping at Ginia’s, “Not you, Michael.”

“Oh?” Mike turned to John, who was muttering something. “Sorry?”

John glowered and mumbled again, all on one breath, so Mike almost didn’t catch it, “SeemsIneedyourhelp.”


	20. Chapter Twenty

“Huh?” Mike asked, thinking he’d heard wrong. He hoped he’d have a chance to draw breath, after all that, but no, seemed the pace of incidents and events here in Connecticut was as breakneck as it was back in the pad. Or at the Willises’. Or the Dolenzes’. He had a brief second of wondering if it would be the same were they all to go to England, to Davy’s, say, or to Amanda’s, but forced himself to remain in the here and now. He tucked all the recent revelations and further questions away to ponder later. “Huh? I didn’t quite—”

“Iwastold toaskyouforafavor.” Amazing that the guy could mutter so aggressively, and through gritted teeth.

“Excuse me?” Mike might have been dubbed _capable_ and _interesting_ just a minute or two ago, but he was firmly in _sadist_ territory now.

“I need a favor from you!” John shouted.

“Jeez! No need to yell, sir.” And from sadistic to smug in one easy step. “Of course. How can I help you?” And yeah, he was rubbing it in.

“My itinerary is still misplaced. Or…misappropriated. And without it, confusion is reigning.”

“How so?” God, the historical-style talk was catching. “I mean, things seem to be running along.”

“Not in the kitchen. Not this lunchtime. The Amazons, Stacia and company, are responsible for the Christmas dinner, tonight, but no one can recall who was charged with lunch.”

 _Or will admit to it._ Mike squashed down the questions that bubbled up about _shouldn’t a big roast turkey and all the trimmings be underway already_ , and concentrated on the matter at hand. “Lunch…”

“For the masses.” John winced at what sounded like a marching band tromping past his study door. “In about half an hour.”

“And…” Whatever was needed, standing in this room wouldn’t achieve it. “Let’s get to the kitchen, then. After you,” Mike said.

“One second…” John refilled two of the glass tumblers with Scotch. Before Mike could thank him and take one, John had drunk the fuller straight down. He clutched the other tight. “Ready…”

Or not, Mike thought, looking around the empty kitchen seconds later.

“And the instruction is to use up what’s here. Right then…” Nodding, John sidled to the door, to jump and frown when a buzzer sounded. He pressed a button on the wall and the sound of piano scales could be heard through an intercom. Mike recognized Peter’s playing. “I asked him to help,” John said, into the small speaking section.

“To help _you_!” his wife corrected. “If Michael would be so kind. To work with you.”

Mike thought his face must be wearing the same expression as John’s. He smoothed it out and approached the intercom. “And make use of what’s…left. Leftovers.” He belatedly figured it out. “That right, ma’am—Ginia?”

“The bass. From when John went fishing with the head of his department, to butter him up, only to cheese him off by catching a bigger fish than he did.”

“The man’s an idiot!” raged John.

“It needs using up today,” Ginia’s voice announced.

The sheer size of the bass left in the icebox took Mike’s breath away. He stared from it to John.

‘“Your mission, John and Michael, should you decide to accept it…’” came in Peter’s voice, then mother and son laugher was heard, before the communication was cut.

“Okay…” Mike looked deeper into the icebox, assessed the wooden tallboy’s drawers that were stacked storage baskets of vegetables, and examined the store cupboards, and the herbs growing in pots. “I’m thinking…pâté starter?” He cross-referenced the amount of mouths that needed feeding with the cookware and dishware available and selected the bowl that was closest in size to a bucket and the most canoe-paddle-sized wooden spoon he could see.

“Right, so I’ll just…”

“Mash this”—Mike was flaking a generous portion of the cooked fish as he spoke — “with that crème fraiche while I chop fresh herbs. What? Your wife said _we_ —”

“Yes, _fine_!” John stopped inching toward the door, put down his glass, and snatched up the carton. “You do realize this is as much about ‘bonding’ as it is cooking lunch?”

Mike flipped the knife over and caught it by the handle. “Yeah, I got that, thanks.”

“And you’re…some sort of chef?”

 _He_ sure wasn’t, the ginger way he was poking at the contents of the bowl. “I’ve put in my hours in a kitchen, yeah.” Part of his duties, in the Air Force, and they’d all done shifts at Pop’s.

“Hmm.” John tasted and made a face. “This mixture is rather bland.”

“So add pepper flakes.” Mike scraped in the herbs he’d chopped.

“Ouch! Too hot!” Pepper flakes added, John waved a hand in front of his mouth.

“Then add more crème.” Mike fought not to grit his teeth—he betted he didn’t have such a good dental plan as John did.

John squeezed in the rest of the container and Mike waited for it— “Now it’s a little flat.”

“Here.” Mike slid a lemon squeezer crowned with a ready and waiting half-lemon down to him. “Just a couple drops.”

“But—”

“And if it goes too acidic, add a splash of milk,” he said, beating John to the punch.

“The younger ones won’t eat this,” John opined, after a pause.

“Bet they will.” Mike took up his knife again, this time using it on slices of slightly old bread. He dolloped some of the pâté John had mixed into another bowl and mashed it smoother and thinner. “Put the kids all together down one end of the table and tell ’em they got special fish paste. As in, paste for fish.” He set the bowl on a platter and started placing the fish-shaped crackers he was cutting out around it, until the pâté was ringed by layers of nose-to-tail ‘fish’. He put the triangles of dry bread left from his cut-outs on to toast.

“You…studied psychology? You have an understanding of it,” John commented.

“Oh, I picked up the basics that you need in a restaurant. And in a family.” Mike sliced up a fresh baguette, thinner than he’d have liked, but he had to make it stretch.

“Are you from a big family?”

Mike smiled. Four wasn’t big. “No.”

“Ha! You are now!” John crowed.

“Oh.” Mike blinked. “I…well, thanks.”

John nodded. “I’m sorry if in trying to make you leave in a way that wouldn’t reveal information to Peter, I hurt you, Michael. I came across as a snob, but please don’t think you aren’t good enough for us, that we, or I…”

“I… It’s okay.” Shrugging, Mike jumped to find a glass of chilled white wine at his fingertips. He held it out to clink with the matching one in John’s hand, marveling at the speed and smoothness of John’s alcohol-related sleight of hand. Whatever, it was faster and slicker than anything Micky had managed, in his magician phase. And if Micky could replicate John’s magicking-up-drink trick with food… _nutjob’d be the shape of his kettledrum in a week_.

He took a sip to be companionable, but although the wine was smooth, he had to focus. “Those bits of bread toasted? Okay, put them on a plate.” Thankfully, the kitchen had plenty of crockery. “Can you slice the carrots?”

Mike sliced celery, so they’d have fresh stuff to eat with the pâté. He showed John how to cut a zigzag around the middle of a tomato then pull it apart to make two fancy-edged halves. “For decoration,” he explained, indicating they should go the middle of the plates of toasted bits and vegetables. He held back an eye roll at John sprinkling chopped green chives over the tomatoes—guy needed to have the last word, or finishing touch.

“When there’s time, I’d really like if you could talk about…operations or cases you’ve been involved in. If you can,” Mike added hastily. “I bet it’s interesting, to say the least.”

“Oh…yes.” John leaned against the counter and looked into his glass. “Yes. _Interesting_ indeed.” His smile was nostalgic. “I was young, of course, and so found it exciting. Traveling, seeing the world… I was recruited in college. How about you?”

“Not college, no.”

“Do you find it exciting?”

“Not…I don’t know. It gets the adrenalin pumping, I guess.” Which made it exciting in that respect. “It’s something I got into rather than— Well, like I mentioned to Peter. But it won’t be for much longer.”

John was about to ask a question, so Mike checked his watch. “We don’t have much time to get the other courses done. Means we need more help. Micky! Micky, Micky?”

“Why did you call him like that? And all the younger ones are in the basement, rehearsing their play. He can’t hear you.”

“He comes when you call his name three times.” Yeah, only just now, with a grown-up adult eyeing him like that, did Mike realize how crazy that sounded.

“You know, in folklore, or actually, mythology, the beings who could be summoned by calling their name three times were—” John backed closer to Mike as the doors swung inward and Micky entered, his eyebrows raised to almond-shaped arches over his almond-shaped eyes, his gaze on John and his finger to his lips in a _shush_ gesture.

“I brought Davy too,” Micky said, unnecessarily, Mike felt, with him right there. “You need him too, huh?”

“We need help with lunch,” Mike replied. Going by the other two’s reactions, the plural pronoun wasn’t lost on them.

“Well, John, well, Mike,” Micky enunciated, also unnecessarily, “Everyone’s stuffing their faces with fudge and nuts and small oranges, so they won’t need a lot to eat.”

That, coming from him, had Mike and Davy staring at him.

“We gotta work with what we got…” Mike cast an eye over the containers tucked under counters, seeing a box of potatoes and a pail of eggs.

“And what have we got?” Davy asked.

“A Brit!” John answered, as if he’d only just realized Davy was English, or perhaps thought he was answering questions in a general knowledge game.

“And what comes to mind when you think of English food?” Mike asked.

“Indigestion?” John riposted. “Sorry. Everything fried in lard? Sorry.” He snorted into his drink.

“Try again,” Mike said, nudging the bottle behind a packet of flour, where it might remain out of sight, out of mind.

“Swimming…and _gambling_?” John tried, after a pause.

“ _Swimming and…_ Oh what is this swimming…” Mike whipped around to see Micky trying to mime the answer to John. “You can’t _eat_ swimming and gambling.”

Micky tried again.

“Fish and poker!” John yelled. “Chips! I meant chips!”

“Exactly.” Mike nodded. “Fishcakes, for a first course, and fishcakes and chips for those who want that for their meal. The kids, mainly.” He eased the wine from Micky’s hand before Micky could find a glass or swig from the bottle. “So we gotta get busy.”

“On it,” replied Micky and within the blink of an eye all four of them were wearing chef’s whites and hats.

John staggered. “What… No. _How?_ ”

“Monkee magic,” Micky said.

“Better not to ask,” Davy advised.

“But…” John set his empty wineglass down carefully. He grabbed the bottle from Mike’s hand and tipped its contents down the sink. “I can’t say I wasn’t warned…” he muttered. Micky whined to see it go. Mike clapped his hands to get everyone’s attention.

“Davy, potatoes? Just scrub them—no time to peel. Micky, pat ’em dry.” He nodded his approval as they mustered and fell in. “John, could you—”

“Work the electric potato cutter? Oh yes.” John pulled an appliance from a shelf.

“Some guys and their gadgets,” tsked Mike. “Oh, a processor for breadcrumbs? Nice!” He soon had it whirring, crumbing up the stale bread, then dealing with the chunks of fish and the long green stalks he thought – hoped – were shallots and not scallions. He was soon stirring ginger and squirting lime into the fishcake dough.

“I need a mold. Or a napkin ring,” he asked John, then Micky when John looked blank. Within seconds, they had a production line going of shaping, egg dipping, breadcrumb coating, frying, draining, and warming.

“So, you got a big anniversary coming up?” Micky’s question to John cut across John’s comments about classic Taylorism in action. “So’ve Peter and Mike.”

“That was as smooth as your chest there, Dolenz.” Davy shook his head.

“Yeah, six months in January.” Micky raised his voice over John’s musings on Fordism. “And it’ll be a year in July.”

“When Chris and Matt and Nick are in your town?” John asked.

“You’re letting them go?” Mike was surprised.

“I don’t have much choice.” John watched Davy take the wire basket from the electric fryer and shake the half-cooked fries onto paper to drain then fill the basket with more chipped potatoes and lower it into the oil. “It’s either say yes now or suffer six months of those two begging and cajoling and trying to trick me and making rash promises in exchange for it, promises they have no intention of keeping”

Mike had a flash-forward of him and Peter—but mostly him—trying to keep track of four kids around LA. _But they’ll all be older by then and…yeah._ He was fooling no one, least of all himself. ‘“Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof,’” he muttered.

“Mike gets Biblical in a kitchen,” Micky confided in a whisper. “We think it’s the proximity to all the fire and water.”

When Davy tipped out these half-cooked fries to drain and replaced them with the first batch, John asked why.

“Double frying makes ’em crispy on the outside and fluffy on the in.” Davy lowered them down for a second frying.

“But—”

Davy swung around to him. “You _really_ gonna argue about cooking chips with a bloke not just from England, but the _north_ of England?”

“No,” John said, after a pause.

“Micky, go set the table,” Mike ordered. “Find some fancy plates and stuff. Nice glasses… Do it how your mom would.” That should be clear enough. “Dessert… You got a whole lot of canned pears here. Can I use them?”

“Please do.” John shuddered. “Shall I open them?”

“Uh-huh and drain the syrup into this pan.” The pan he put on high heat to reduce and thicken the syrup. He also put on a pan the size of a rain barrel for water for the spaghettini and a pot the size of baby’s bath for the sauce.

Soon, Davy was dividing the pasta mixture into two serving bowls the size of manhole covers while Mike made a cheese omelette for Peter, one John sprinkled with chives as Mike passed him with it. Mike was almost trampled by the stampede thundering into the dining room and he stood leaning against the door when he made it inside, amazed at the swarm-of-locust-like devouring of the pâté and paste. The fishcakes and chips went down quickly and easily too.

“Oh, I don’t know what I enjoyed the most, the fishcake first course or the bass, lemon and garlic spaghettini main course,” Ginia praised a little later.

“Wait until you taste dessert,” John told her, pushing in the trolley full of pear halves in bowls and assembling a team of his own, this one his sons, to add two scoops of ice cream to, pour the melted-chocolate-syrup topping onto, and push a wafer into each one.

“What a Taylorist approach,” Ginia commented.

“ _I_ said that!” John cried.

Mike didn’t take that in, or the chatter about the younger kids’ puppet show in the attic to be followed by the older ones’ show in the basement versus the evening concert later—he was too busy looking at the typed note he’d found under his plate.

 _Go to the barn as soon as you can_ , Mike read.

Oh, he planned to.


	21. Chapter Twenty-One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just barn smut. As you do.

It proved easy to slip away after lunch. The aunts were disputing with the uncles over who should be clearing the table and cleaning the kitchen, and the younger kids were arguing with the older ones over various props and material the former needed for their puppet show in the attic that the latter demanded for their show in the basement. In the midst of that, no one was accounting for anyone’s whereabouts.

Mike pushed open the barn door and dropped the metal bar down to close it from the inside behind him. It was fairly dark inside, just a few gleams of white coming in from the snow-lit day outside…coming in through the few, strategically chosen, high windows that had been unshuttered. Hmm. The quiet and emptiness showed the space wasn’t being used for any sort of play or concert or rehearsal thereof, meaning he hadn’t been asked there to participate in or attend any. Mike had his suspicions, however, that he’d be taking in part in some other kind of…entertainment.

The half-light allowed him to see that the small wooden box near the door bore a few items. _Western_ items. He picked up the, _oh_ , bolo necktie. He’d never seen it before, but he recognized the clasp as a pretty hazel-brown stone Peter had had for years, that he’d been smoothing and polishing with grit and rotary tools for a few months and— _wow_ —made or set into a necktie slide. Mike put on the tie, running the thin braided leather through his fingers, feeling its two metal tips, and the metal clip on the back of the stone-turned-clasp.

The long leather stock whip had him opening his eyes wide, but he ignored that item in favor of the piece of cloth he shoved into his pocket and the Stetson he picked up to examine. The light wasn’t good enough for him to tell if it was the one he’d worn before, the other day, but he thought it was. Curious, he turned it over to check out its interior, mainly its hat band and specifically the small pouch in that, where cowboys slotted pics of their sweethearts or rodeo riders stuffed their good luck charms. In this one, he found a travel-sized, long-nozzled tube of a certain viscous substance. 

A shuffling noise had him looking up, in time to see the topmost small box from the pile across from him wobble and fall outward, disturbed by something— _someone_ —crouched behind the heap.

“Who’s there?” Mike demanded. “Show yourself.”

A figure pushed the boxes aside and raced through the gap he’d made in the middle. He darted for the stairs near Mike, brushing Mike as he ran past in a blur of blue-green paisley and white. _Well, well._

“Stop,” Mike called up the wooden steps to the figure now on the barn’s upper level. The figure halted and Mike swept a quick glance over the remaining items left out for him. The bolas he ignored—he’d trained some with the throwing weapon, but his skill wasn’t enough to whirl the weighted cords around anyone’s or anything’s legs, tangling and capturing them. The other piece he had more proficiency with.

“That’s a lariat, right?” Davy had queried once when they were watching some western or other.

“ _Lasso_ , you greenhorn,” Micky had corrected.

“It’s a rope, you rube,” Mike had informed _him_. And roping, throwing a loop of it around a target to restrain them, he could do. He snatched it up and spun it as he ran up a few steps. “I said stop,” he called to the figure that’d started moving again. “Last warning. Do as I say and things’ll go a bit easier on ya.”

He wouldn’t have won any points for technique but his rope fell true—okay; no one could’ve missed from that range—pinning the man’s arms to his sides. Mike tightened the circle to immobilize and capture his prey, then reeled the man in by winding the rope around his forearm and elbow to shorten it and pull his captive toward him.

“Well, well,” he said again. “What kinda intruder we got here?” He made a slow circle of Peter who turned his head and lowered it so Mike couldn’t get a good look at his face. It made his dark-blond hair fall into his eyes in a silk curtain, and Mike stepped close enough to tip up Peter’s face and brush the silk aside. He was close enough and there was just light enough to see the flower tattoo Peter had painted on his cheek, the necklaces and beads Peter had looped around his neck, and scent the stronger-than-incense and weaker-than-patchouli cologne Peter now smelled of.

“Looks like I caught me a goddam ever-lovin’ hippie,” Mike crowed. “Why you sneakin’ around the property, boy? Who you hiding from?”

Peter jutted out his chin but said nothing. Mike laughed. “Not much of a talker, huh? Well, that’s fine ’cause I was planning on doing this anyway.” _This_ was him yanking a bandanna from his pocket and tying it around Peter’s mouth in one quick action—gagging him with the strip of red cloth that’d featured in several of their games and would in this one.

“I know, shame to deprive myself of this pretty mouth…” Mike ran his thumb over the top and bottom lips, made more prominent by the gag. “But I don’t want to be hearing your screams in a little while, when you’re paying the price for trespass.” He paused. He loved Peter on his knees in front of him, obediently sucking his cock while Mike cradled the back of his head, holding him in place. Practice had honed Peter’s skill and stamina to the point Mike could almost fuck his mouth as hard as he wanted, almost thrust as deep as he liked to. “But maybe we’ll put that mouth, those full lips, to good use later.”

He passed behind Peter and pressed close, his lips to Peter’s ear. “Now, if I free you, you ain’t gonna do nothin’ foolish, right, boy?” He distracted or dissuaded Peter by biting down on the earlobe his lips were touching, increasing the pressure of his teeth on the soft flesh while he slid the rope off Peter’s torso in a swift motion, pulling Peter’s vest free with it. Oh, he liked that brown vest fine, but liked better wrapping his arms around Peter from behind and sliding his hands over Peter’s soft-cotton-covered chest, just as he enjoyed undoing Peter’s shirt buttons, to feel Peter’s much nicer-to-the-touch skin underneath.

Similarly, he liked circling Peter’s waist from behind and rubbing Peter’s crotch through the worn cotton of his pants or denims, then popping the button and sliding the zipper down to stroke what lay underneath. Oh, that felt soft to the touch at first, maybe, but Mike could get Peter hard as iron within a minute, just like Peter could him. 

He might have slipped the loop of rope free, but Mike had no intention of leaving his captive unbound. He pulled the iron pendant Peter was wearing, that pot-leaf-looking peace sign in a teardrop, off over his head from back to front, and tied the leather thong it was strung on around Peter’s wrists to imprison them in front of him.

Peter would never say much about the pendant, beyond mentioning he’d gotten it in New York, and had even pleaded the fifth on it, all of which made Mike suspect Stephen, and he felt a savage satisfaction in using the accessory for his own purposes now. The gleam Peter couldn’t prevent shining from his eyes said he knew this and that was why he’d selected it. Mike gave Peter’s bonds a tug. “That should hold.”

He circled to the back of Peter. If they were re-enacting with strict accuracy Hart and Kincaid’s first meeting, he would’ve hogtied the hippie he caught trespassing, forced him to his knees, then belly and tied his wrists to his bent ankles, but that would put Peter’s legs out of action, meaning Mike couldn’t force them apart to stand between them and take Peter. Oh, the scene in the book hadn’t gone anything like that far, of course, but in role-playing the duo, he and Peter usually put in what had been left out, or only hinted at in the manner that made Peter’s ex-wife’s books wildly popular with the gay community. _Subtext_ , Peter called it. _Buttsex_ , Mike and the _Lower East Side Chronicles’_ avid readers understood.

“You know, boy, I don’t even care why you’re here?” Mike told him, keeping his tone conversational. “All I care about is you pay your dues for using the property.” He half-wanted to go for a him _ab_ -using _Peter’s_ property quip, but let his proprietary hand on Peter’s ass do the talking for him. “What, you’re a little-bitty innocent thing and don’t know what I mean? No matter—you will soon.” The catch to Peter’s breath and his sudden stilling felt real, Peter getting off on this, which coursed fire through Mike’s veins in turn.

He fondled one firm butt cheek, squeezing with sudden force. “Oh, that’s real nice,” he husked. “Nice and firm. Bet you’ve got a real tight ass. Gonna give me a good ride, huh?” He strayed a finger to Peter’s hole, keeping it there long enough to make Peter shift from foot to foot—which was when Mike pressed slightly in. “I got a question for ya. You gonna be generous and share the bounty, or gonna make me fight to claim it? ’Cause I’m fine either way.”

He was. It was up to Peter. If Peter wanted to struggle, to make Mike subdue him, to fight to buck Mike off when Mike was forcing his way inside him, making Mike work harder, exert more force and dominance, fine. If Peter was all reluctance then slow acceptance and shy liking to end in eager demands, Mike was up for that too. He undid Peter’s shirt from behind and caressed his torso. “Nice and smooth. City boy, huh?” Peter had just the right amount of chest hair, a soft vee of it between his pecs, visible and tempting in open-neck shirts. Mike pushed his growing hardness against Peter’s ass cheeks, and kept his mouth near Peter’s ear and his hands on Peter’s chest until Peter’s heart started to race, at which Mike pinched his nipples, hard, making Peter squeak.

“Oh, you like that, boy? I think you do.” Those words made Peter shiver. Good. Mike had gone off script by now, was improvising his lines, and Peter grooved on it. Neither of them had any hang-ups about their sexual needs, how they liked to play…what they got off on. Mike nudged Peter along to a couple of bales of hay, ones that caught a shaft of snow-brightened light from a window. He nuzzled into Peter’s hair to his ear, to trace the shell with his tongue-tip and nip the pointed top, eliciting a whine from behind the gag. The sound made Mike harder.

“Ohhh.” Mike nodded. “Could this be what you came looking for? Well, ya found it.” He pulled the gag’s slip knot free with his teeth. “Let’s hear ya, hippie boy.” His fingers still at Peter’s nipples, he squeezed hard. Peter let out a whimper. “Trying to be brave, huh? That’s… _good_.” Mike accompanied last word with an extra-tight pinch of one finger and thumb. The other hand he slid lower, scoring Peter’s quivering flesh with his nails as he did so, to insinuate it into Peter’s waistband and flick open the button with his thumb.

“Oh, you’re _hatin’_ this,” he scoffed, feeling Peter hardening, thickening under his hand. No, _making_ him harden and lengthen under his hand. “See it won’t take much to make you my bitch. An’ iffen you’re real good, you might get to come after. _If._ Ya gotta please me first. But I think I’ll be mighty pleased if your ass is as fine as your dick. Ya got a good length to you, kid.”

He loved the chorus of broken, bitten-back whimpers falling from Peter’s lips. “A thick cock and a tight ass.” He took his hand from Peter’s torso to tap his ass. “Bet it’ll feel tight too, when I’m fucking it _hard_.”

Peter leaked more precum with every filthy promise, every dark utterance Mike loosed. Still keeping his hands on him, Mike forced him to bend over the tightly packed bale of straw. As he did so, he pulled Peter’s pants down to expose his ass. There was no need to lower his briefs—Peter wasn’t wearing any.

“Well, just look at that,” Mike marveled. “I can’t decide if that means you’re lazy…or a slut. It mean you’re always ready, boy? Always available? Free love, and all that hippie stuff?”

Now Peter started to struggle, just the right amount, shrugging and twisting. “Hey there. None of that,” was all the warning Mike gave before delivering a smack to one cheek, the _slap_ noise echoing loudly off the rafters. Mike left his place and went to stand in front of Peter. The straw between them was stacked in a container, a simple thing made of wooden slats, and while Peter raised his head to eye Mike, wondering what he was about, Mike pulled Peter’s arms fully across the bale and down, and retied the leather strip imprisoning Peter’s wrists to a wooden bar. “Looking better an’ better,” Mike growled.

He retook his place, puling Peter’s pants down to his knees and spreading his legs as much as the fabric allowed. “Now, where were we? Oh yeah. Right about here, with me showing you why it’ll do you no good to fight this.” The light wasn’t good enough to see the subtle-to-bold changes in color his hand brought to Peter’s flesh, but the blows he landed got Peter’s flesh warm to the touch, then hot, just as being restrained and Mike’s dirty talk got him hotter. Mike knew, even if Peter’s sobs and whines didn’t tell him, because he eased a hand between Peter and the hay, assessing just how hard he was and how much precum he was leaking. 

And yeah, despite the low light, the red tinge to Peter’s ass cheeks was visible now. Mike pressed against it, right against the inflamed flesh, letting Peter feel his hard cock.

“Think you’re ready for me now, boy.” Mike said, his tone thick and dark with approval he had no need to fake or exaggerate. Seeing Peter like this, feeling what this did to him… Mike could have come when he stood. He took his hat off to get the lube, and replaced the Stetson on Peter’s head, not his own. “Ready, but you need to be readier.” That was his way of telling Peter he was about to insert the nozzle of the tube inside Peter’s hole and squirt some lube in deep.

Peter inhaled, hard and sharp, then in the silence that followed, the sound of Mike unzipping his jeans was loud. His cock sprang free as if it had a mind of its own and was desperate to slam into Peter’s ass. Oh no, that’d be Mike, hard and ready, and so slick with his own precum they didn’t really need lubricant.


	22. Chapter Twenty-Two

Maybe waiting, pausing in readiness, hard, hot and heavy at Peter’s hole, was part of the scene, a power play to taunt or unsettle Peter, but Mike couldn’t. The best he could do was to rub his cock along Peter’s cleft before he pressed the head to Peter’s entrance and forged in an inch. That was all he could manage before Peter started twisting, then crying out against Mike’s penetration.

His struggles were letting him work his dick against the straw beneath him, Mike saw. He leaned over Peter and grabbed a handful of his hair. “Kid, this is happening. In a minute, I’ll be balls-deep in your sweet ass. Now, I can do it nice, go slow until you’re broken in and used to me, and I’ll make sure to press on that little sweet spot inside you that’ll make ya see stars.” He gave a sudden dirty rub to the bump of Peter’s prostate from the outside, to show him…and to make him squirm. “Or I can do it quick and nasty, fuck you hard and fast, fill you so full you’ll think you’re splittin’ in two. Your choice, boy.”

Mike straightened and in the next heartbeat was inside Peter. Peter twisted and tried to buck him off, but Mike forced his way in, bottoming out, his grunt loud and his groan of satisfaction louder. Maybe Peter’s intention had been to shove Mike off, make him work to claim Peter, but the hard thrust of his hips met the slam of Mike’s into him, and they both moaned. “See? Knew you’d be eager to get that ass filled,” Mike gloated. Peter’s lunges met Mike’s perfectly, just as his channel was the perfect home for Mike’s cock.

Peter felt even tighter than usual, and his heat scalding, and Mike was so revved he knew he wouldn’t last. Keeping up the stream of dirty talk, he reached around to take Peter’s cock in his hand, finding it as ready as he’d expected. “Come on,” he grunted. “Show me what you’ve got.”

“If _you_ will,” Peter managed to gasp, pushing back to take Mike deeper still, and damn if that and his challenging words didn’t have Mike’s climax thundering up and over him, forcing him to pound his release deep into the constriction of Peter’s ass. He made sure to take Peter with him, milking him as long and hard as Peter was him, making him ride out pulse after pulse, spasm after spasm, biting where Peter’s neck met his shoulder and at the back of his neck – they’d discovered another sensitive spot recently.

Mike’s heart thundered strong, taking its own sweet time to steady back to normal. He was convinced it kept pace with Peter’s, or Peter’s with his, and was sure he could feel Peter’s heartbeat from where his face was pressed to Peter’s back. “Fuck, babe! I haven’t come so hard in a month!” Mike eventually groaned against Peter’s taut skin.

“Me neither. And you have to move,” came in a squashed mutter from beneath him.

“I don’t think I can.” His legs were weak and he sank down farther, still draped over Peter.

“You can’t move? Well, I can’t breathe!” Peter turned his head and spat out a mouthful of the straw his face had been pushed into, then laughed. He pulled the knot undone to free his wrists from the bonds and he and Mike ended up slumped on the floor, sitting with their backs against the bundle of hay.

Mike grabbed him to kiss him, his lips at first fierce with the pride of possession, then slowing, sweetening, softening. It was like a warm-down, leaving the heightened world of playing or playacting for reality. A reality in which they were here, now, and together in every way Mike could think of. “I fucking love you,” he whispered against the top of Peter’s head where he held Peter clasped to his chest.

“ _Love you_ ,” Peter mouthed against the skin of Mike’s collarbone.

“I loved you from the moment I saw you,” Mike couldn’t not say.

“Soppy fool,” Peter riposted, but Mike felt the curve of his contented smile.

He laughed. “That was exhausting!”

“Tell me about it.” Peter rubbed his wrists. “And uncomfortable.”

“I didn’t hurt you?” Mike was instant guilt and contrition. It could be difficult to judge, in these scenes, when emotions ran high and—

“No, as in wet and uncomfortable now.” Peter shifted on the straw. “That’s our best bandana – we don’t use it for clean-up, and you left a hell of a load in me, there, Tex.”

“Oh, Here.” Mike handed over another square of cloth, this one…orange.

Peter stared. “Tell me I don’t recognize this _shmata_.”

“You don’t recognize this _shmata_?” Mike tried, aiming for a version of the hypnosis Micky had been into during one phase.

“I won’t ask,” Peter said in the tone that meant he’d chip away at it, hoping to wear Mike down until he cracked.

“Good.” Mike swallowed. He was thirsty. “You leave any water or soda up here, shotgun?”

“Sorry. And anyway, there wasn’t any in the original.”

“The orig—oh.” Mike got it. “Sometimes I wish Elizabeth had never written any of those dang books.”

“Really? But then we wouldn’t have had the scenes where they need to infiltrate a web of corruption and so Kincaid pretends to be a high roller at the private members’ consenting adults club where Hart’s also undercover, as a leather-clad ‘slaveboy’ up for ‘auction’.”

“Okay—”

 _And Kincaid freaks out when all the sleazy guys bid for Hart, so he punches the billionaire senseless, outbids all the others, wins Hart, and they have to go into the backroom and—_ Peter’s face wore a too-innocent look for the filth he was mentally broadcasting.

“Yeah, okay. _Seventh Heaven_ can stay,” Mike admitted. That scene…had really been something. He laughed again. “Your father said I was a member of the family.”

“ _Really?_ ”

“Yeah. What’s the matter, he never said that to Ezra?”

“Michael—”

“Just kidding! I know it wasn’t the same.” He felt that relationship, no matter how much Peter liked Ezra and must’ve dug the hook-ups, had been more to do with his tangled relationship with his father: something to flaunt, throw in his face.

Peter laughed. “Wait til he starts offloading chores he wants to get out of onto you. I can hear it now: ‘As the partner of the eldest, it behoves you to shovel the snow from the drive.’ Or, ‘the significant other of the first-born traditionally takes the place of the father at Matt’s parent-teacher conference.’ Not necessarily in that order—”

A clock striking somewhere outside cut Peter off. He grabbed Mike’s wrist to see his watch, then cursed. “Come on. We have a performance.”

“ _Another?_ You’ll wear me out, babe.” Mike ran a finger down Peter’s nose.

“No, one with an audience.”

“I never signed up for that,” Mike muttered as they cleaned up and dressed. He kept the bolo tie on and pulled Peter back as he went to exit. “I didn’t thank you for this,” he murmured, dropping a soft kiss on those lips he loved.

“Oh, you did.” Peter eyed the barn’s upper level, the venue of their recent playtime. “Well, sort of. That took me months to make…”

“I got plenty more thanks in me, angel,” Mike assured him, cupping and squeezing Peter’s fine ass, and trying not to feel smug when Peter yelped—Mike’s spanking had left him sensitive, just as his fucking had left him sore. “Let’s move. Puppet show first then play, right?”

Except there turned out to be no play, they were informed in the hall by Chris, who was sporting a bruised eye, and Matt, who was suffering from a cut lip. “Artistic differences?” sighed Peter, in the tone of one who’d seen it all before.

“I’m team Chris,” said Micky, bobbing up from behind him.

“After reflection, I’m team Matt.” Davy shoved a piece of fudge into his cheek to speak. Mike betted it wasn’t the one he’d received in his stocking. “He makes a better case,” came almost indistinctly. Funny, Micky was usually the one susceptible to foodstuff bribery. Seemed they’d found Davy’s—

“Achilles’ fudge,” Peter finished for him.

“Well, no play means we’ve been able to input into the puppet show.” Chris pointed up toward the attic.

“Yeah, a starring role for Davy,” said Micky brightly, leaping on a stool behind Davy and miming pulling strings over his head.

Davy turned, saw, and kicked the stool from under Micky in one smooth motion, and Micky fell on his face on the parquet flooring.

“Oh look, we’re twinsies,” said Matt, pointing at Micky’s newly split lip, which matched his own.

“Huh.” Micky let Matt haul him to his feet. He dabbed at his lip. “Hey, I could give you a matching shiner to Chris’?” he offered Davy.

“Try it?” Davy invited, standing ready.

“Jeez, kids! Is this what happens when you’re left without supervision?” Peter asked.

“This what it’s gonna be like in LA for a whole month?” Mike added.

“Pretty much,” Chris answered, to nods and agreement and backslaps from the other three.

“I need a drink,” Mike muttered, then caught what he’d said. “Oh God—”

“Michael, you’re a real grown-up adult.” Peter bit his lip and dabbed a tear from his eye.

Chris clapped on a peaked cap and pulled out a bugle, Matt grabbing up a drum, to lead the procession, marching from room to room until they’d summoned the entire house as audience for the performance.

Mike covered his ears.

“You know what they say.” Peter nudged him. “If it’s too loud—”

“You’re too grown-up adult. You’ll pay for that later,” Mike assured him, landing a smart slap on Peter’s still-smarting smartass, where Peter climbed the attic steps ahead of him, mainly because Peter couldn’t yelp in front of his family.

“ _Again?_ ” queried Cait, catching him. “Was he was talking back to you?”

Mike nodded.

“Oh, so the spanking isn’t because you both like it?” Cait looked straight ahead at the makeshift theater, not at him, for which Mike was grateful. He didn’t want to lie to the lady, or shock her with the truth. He reckoned the red blush staining his face spoke for him.

“Hot in here.” He fanned himself with the crayon-drawn program. “So, the older ones helped out their younger cousins. That’s nice.”

Peter sat carefully on Mike’s lap as Mike leaned back against a joist, the glint in his eyes saying he was going to wriggle. “Helped out with or aired their grievances via it?” he wondered.

It was more the latter, Mike felt, a little confused over the personal grudge nature of _The New True Meaning of Christmas_ as enacted by a strange bunch of wooden puppets. The puppets in themselves, a Dutch boy and girl, a wolf and a witch, and a Scotsman and a frog, confused him. Tradition, he supposed.

“The clown ghost is new,” Cait commented.

“What does it symbolize?” Ginia wondered.

“Probably that white paint got spilt on the clown puppet and they went with it?” Nick suggested, getting shushed all round.

The applause was thunderous—everyone pleased when the show was over. Heading downstairs again, thankful to be out of the close attic space, Mike was struck by the relative lack of cookery noise and scents in the kitchen. Time was getting on, and roast dinners took a while. “Micky,” he whispered, “maybe you should go see if you can help any? Speed things along?” He didn’t know exactly what he meant, but trusted Micky would.

“I’m on it,” Micky assured him, striding into the kitchen, only to back out a moment later, leaving a cacophony in his wake. “Mike, they got, like, a whole flock of turkeys, all shrunk!” he hissed.

“Chickens, you mean?”

“No, smaller.”

“Pigeons?” Mike was reminded of their first meal around the table.

“No, I don’t know! You don’t think”—Micky bit his lip —“that they got a shrinking ray? ’Cause if so, we gotta keep Davy out of their way, guys! He couldn’t take another dose!”

“Cool it. You want another split lip? I’ll go see…” Mike back away from the kitchen door when the figure of a cross-armed Stacia filled it, a metal implement glinting in one hand.

“Oh yeah. And she’s got a cleaver,” Micky said, pointing at it then vanishing.

***

They settled down to Christmas dinner at the beautifully set table once John had rearranged the seating to make a dry section of the table for non-drinkers—himself in the center.

“You’ve…” Ginia tried to ask.

“You’re…” her mother attempted to inquire.

“Given up.” John scowled. “Better safe than…seeing things and thinking things, you know?” He took a swallow of his soda water and lime cordial and avoided looking in Micky’s direction.

“Well, the doctor will be pleased!” his wife declared. “He said it would be good to cut back, remember, when you went to him about your headaches?”

“ _Told you. Health scare_ ,” Micky mouthed.

“Good that turned out to be nothing, though,” Ginia continued.

“Yes, except for what was it… Oh yes. You being too vain to wear the glasses that you need,” commented his brother. He selected an LP of carols to put on and distributed crackers by everyone’s plate, asking John, “You’ll be able to read the jokes fine?”

“Read and solve. Every. Single. One. And before anyone else,” John sniped.

Then it was a flurry of tugs-of-war to pull crackers and swop the paper hats inside to get people’s favorite colors, and John demanding silence to hear himself think and get the answers to the riddles on the slips of paper each cracker contained, tutting in annoyance when Davy beat him to the punch.

“I almost had that one!” he lamented, when Davy answered Patrick’s riddle of, “Who is Santa's favourite singer?” with “Elf-is Presley.”

“And that one!” he shouted, when Davy called out, “Santa walking backward,” to Cait’s, “What says Oh Oh Oh?”

“If you want to gag Davy, I believe Mike has a bandana,” Peter said into a rare moment of silence, his words thickening it.

“I saw the edge of some red cloth sticking out of his pocket!” Cait, sharper-eyed than she needed to be, called. “Is it some Texas thing?”

“I got ya, Mikey!” Micky leaped up and around the table to whisper to Cait, making gestures that Mike _really_ hoped weren’t what they looked like—

Cait’s eyes opened wide and her mouth dropped open wider. She closed it with a snap. “Well, if that’s their bag, then that’s where it’s at,” she said.

Everyone stared.

“Me and Cait are having language exchange classes,” Micky announced.

“Ahem,” Cait coughed.

“Cait and I.” Micky nodded his thanks.

“Well, if you’re all so chummy, maybe Cait would like to join the gang in LA in July?” John said, in the tone of one who was just now realizing he’d be getting a whole month to himself.

“Oh, that’d be a stone groove!” Cait exclaimed. “Is that right, Micky?”

“Entirely apposite,” he told her. “And that would be devoon. Delightful, delect—”

“Oh, July, you said?” Cait gave a tutt. “I’m summering in the Vineyard then.”

“And Micky’s banned from Martha’s Vineyard. Well, Cape Cod as a whole,” Davy said, making everyone turn to him. “Oh…didn’t people know that?”

“If they didn’t, they do now,” Mike observed. “Was it the whale thing?” he asked in a stage whisper.

“The lighthouse episode?” Peter fake-coughed.

“Not the Canal Railroad Bridge incident!” Cait gasped.

Micky said nothing, just looked shifty.


	23. Chapter Twenty-Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra morning smut added for 70mtt!

“Oh, smell that delicious soup!” Aunt Joyce commented as Elsa and Helen came in with vats of split pea and beetroot soups—the two of them in charge of every course but the main one of the festive meal.

“They really do smell and look as good as Inge’s,” Elsa’s equally proud father added.

“That’s because they _are_ Inge’s.” John laid down his spoon after his first taste. “That you asked her to cook and freeze for you, yes?”

“No one said we couldn’t,” sniffed Elsa, not daunted in the slightest by her uncle. “We needed the time for our desserts.”

“And while I see that’s an easy starter to make, I don’t think the children will eat baked camembert with poppy bread,” John said, when Helen laid out what looked like floral table centrepieces, but were soft, warm cheeses set within garlands of fluffy bread to tear off and dip in.

“Then they’ll go hungry,” Stacia snapped, equally as un-fazed by John. “It does no good to pander to children, you know.” She eyed him and his four, then Mike and the three other Monkees.

“She counted you twice, Pete.” Micky nudged him, grinning.

“She glared harder at you, though. You might find yourself having to run laps or do sit-ups at first light, in the snow,” Peter told him, making him whimper.

He whimpered again, something about, “ _De-sized turkeys!_ ” when the main course was wheeled in.

“Cornish game hens,” corrected Stacia’s father, nodding proud approval at the two long, wide trays of small crisply roasted birds on their beds of vegetables, one container giving off scents of savory spices and the other thyme and lemon.

“Not turkey? Why—”

“Efficiency,” Stacia cut off John’s question. “In terms of cooking and cleaning—you moan about how much time and mess in the kitchen a family meal means.”

“ _And_ table time. You always complain that meals drag on, John,” said his brother.

“And there’s no waste. No leftovers,” his sister-in-law added.

There was a pause, in which John was clearly trying to marshal an argument as efficiently as Stacia had marshalled _her_ resources, both material and human. “I _like_ leftovers,” he finally muttered.

“ _What?_ I won’t even mention all that fish, but I will remind you’ve only just finished griping about all the turkey we’ve had to eat since thanksgiving!” said Ginia. “How many mealtimes when you saw what was for eating did you say it made you want to _go_ cold turkey?”

“And now you have. Very prescient of you.” Peter, another non-drinker, knocked his glass of milk into his father’s soda water amidst the ripples of laughter his mother’s comment provoked.

“Hm. Yes. Well.” John took a heaped forkful of meat and looked peeved at finding nothing to complain about. “Oh, I see _you_ got catered for.” Powering up again, he indicated the stuffed aubergine Stacia had set before Peter, then swung to her. “Wither ‘no pandering’, niece?”

“Oh, I just can’t bear the Peter Pout,” Stacia confessed.

“Patent Pending,” added Matt and Chris together, at the same time Nick said, “No one can,” everyone else agreeing.

While Mike found Peter’s Pout—and he’d always give it initial caps from now on—adorable, Peter’s scowl, he realized, was just like his father’s. He tried not to let Peter see he was storing up all this information—okay; ammunition—

“If anyone’s got a pout, it’s Mike,” Peter announced, a wicked topaz glint in his eye. “Look at that lower lip.” He ran a finger along it, dipping it slightly into Mike’s mouth.

“Hmm.” Ginia peered down the table. “It’s fleshy, yes, but that doesn’t automatically equate to pouting.”

“Protuberant doesn’t equal pouting,” Cait agreed, scrutinizing it in turn.

Mike…wished they wouldn’t use words like that. Not when Peter’s touch had him… _fleshy_ and _protuberant_ where he sat. And oh, that wicked, more amber gleam in his Peter’s eye… Little minx knew what he was about. “ _Later,_ ” Mike mouthed.

“What?” Peter said out loud, wrapped in the innocence of an angel. Mike’s angel. Who was gettin’ another spanking on that ass of his, that—

“ _Thing of beauty!_ ” Micky’s mouth dropped open at Helen’s wobbling, towering peach, cherry and cream trifle and he wept openly at the chocolate peanut butter pudding pie Elsa staggered in with, in her cousin’s wake. He grabbed Erin in a bearhug when she proudly presented her marshmallow crispy treats traybake and she screamed and beat at him with her small fists.

“You’re four for four strike-outs now,” Davy said, indicating the row of female cousins opposite them. “You might need to resort to your portable mistletoe. Sill got it?”

“Got it? I never leave home without it.” Micky fished it out and held it up, gazing around in invitation.

Davy leaned close and Mike’s mouth dropped open this time, because it looked like Davy was going to take pity on Micky and, well, _kiss him_ , when John called out, “What do monkeys sing at Christmas?” and quick as a flash Davy replied, “Jungle bells!” and the moment was gone.

Just as well, really, Mike thought. Oh, he was seeing things and thinking things, just like John. He pushed away his wineglass. God knew Micky and Davy could drive a saint to drink, and Mike was far from getting _his_ halo and wings.

***

The musical concert evening, not to be confused with singing along to carols during the meal, took place in the music room, and both the room and the music were lovely.

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard an oboe,” Mike said to John, who made a vague sound and gesture in reply, and insisted his sons went first, singing close and open harmonies. Did Peter sound better with his brothers than he did with the Monkees? Mike would have to consider.

“Father?” Peter invited, a sly smile on his face, indicating John should take their place.

“Oh, I— Hilary!” John exclaimed.

“I’ve sneaked out again and I’m not really here!” she said, joining them, but it was soon apparent she was there for her and Nick to tell Ginia and John that they were dating and had been for some time and… The rest was drowned in Ginia’s squeals just as Hilary vanished beneath her hugs and the huge bunch of keys Ginia was trying to give her, for some reason.

“We heard, yes,” John said. “But my question is are you stopping there, with Nicholas, Hilary? Not planning on moving on to the next one, Christopher, or skipping one, say, and moving onto Matthew?”

“ _John!_ ” shouted Ginia in dismay. After a pause, she turned to Hilary. “Are…you?”

“Duet time,” announced Peter, taking his mother by the wrist and seating her at the piano.

Mike enjoyed those, then Peter’s solo pieces on the piano, guitar, and banjo, the latter of which had been his grandfather’s, and which made Cait pleat her lips and dab at her eyes to hear played. Mike shot glares at Micky and Davy, but seemed neither of them had any intention of making a, “He’s not _that_ bad,” quips. Good to see they understood the occasion.

“Peter…?” Micky asked, and Peter nodded for Micky to come and harmonize with him. Their pieces went down well, with encore requested for _East Virginia_. Within a few numbers, Mike was playing guitar along with them and Davy singing too.

“It’s getting real late for the little ones. We should let your father have his turn,” Mike said to Peter, nodding at John.

“Oh, what’s this I’m hearing about a villancico that you sing acapella?” John called hastily, hardly finishing the sentence before everyone who’d been at the carol singing evening assured him yes, it was wonderful and oh please, could they hear it again?

It was as good as it had been then, as it always was, this time with Patrick lighting the candle that started them and Erin blowing it out after they’d finished.

Mike loved how transported their audience looked, when the lamps were turned on again and he could see faces. As always, it took people a moment of two to come back to themselves, and the applause rang for a full minute.

“And the rest is silence.” John nodded.

“Oh but you didn’t—” Mike’s words were lost in the bustle of adults exclaiming over the late hour, and children protesting it wasn’t _soooo_ late and…

“Tell you later,” Peter whispered.

And later, even as they started the trek to the barn, Mike was still laughing at discovering why they hadn’t heard any music from John, _and_ what had put paid to John’s performing career: “So he just can’t blow if anyone’s watching?” he asked again, wiping his eyes.

“ _It’s a woodwind thing,”_ John was still shouting after them after Peter’s bombshell. _“You wouldn’t understand!”_

“Peter plays French horn! That’s in woodwind quintets!” Micky yelled back.

“ _Ha! Exactly!_ ” floated over the snow.

“But—”

“Leave it,” Peter advised them. “Life’s too short.”

“And it’s Christmas,” Davy added. “Well, was. Until just now. And a bloody great one, too.” His cheek was still bulging with fudge as he lay down to sleep, and a huge chocolate-smeared smile wreathed his face, making him look a little like Micky usually did. Micky, who went to sleep with his portable mistletoe pinned to the curls on the top of his head and…a giant rabbit that came in and snuggled up to him.

“Gotta thing innamorning,” Micky reminded them in a mumble, probably communicating in his sleep. He could do that.

“Funny, so’ve you,” Mike murmured to Peter. “What? You weren’t expecting to get away with sassin’ me, surely?”

“What thing?” Peter’s tone held suspicion and reluctance, but a half-grin tugged at his lips.

Mike told him.

***

And again, two mornings later, on their final day there, Mike was woken for the second morning in a row with a blowjob. “You only yourself to blame there, shotgun, talking back to me on Christmas day and losing at Crazy Eights yesterday, despite your family setting the rules,” he told Peter sleepily, settling himself into position for Peter to do his duty.

Peter licked Mike’s nipple then blew on it. “And you really prefer this to me doing extra chores?”

“Oh yeah.” Mike fought a writhe as Peter nipped his way down. “I loved that Boxing Day blowjob and I bet I’m gonna love today’s day after Boxing Day blowjob just as much. Or even more,” he added, to spur competition in Peter. When Peter didn’t move any faster or with any more intent, Mike threaded a hand through his hair. “Go on,” he husked. “You can do whatever you like to me. I’m in your hands.”

“And mouth,” Peter retorted, sliding lower and pulling Mike’s pj pants with him.

“Not quite ye— _aaahh_ ,” came Mike’s attempt at a witty reply, curtailed when Peter took him deep, but setting a slow, almost languid pace, bringing Mike to the edge in the tight wet heat of his mouth before pulling off, leaving a slutty thread of saliva from his lips to the tip of Mike’s cock, denying him the perfect constriction of Peter’s mouth and using his hand to jack him, instead, equally as slowly. When him rubbing his thumb over the tip as he reached the head made Mike’s breathing and pulse speed, his release threatening, Peter slowed again, switching his hand for his mouth.

“Whatever I like,” he reminded Mike, leaning over him to breathe Mike’s words back to him.

“Gonna fucken kill me,” Mike moaned, long, loud and low…and loving every second. He liked being at Peter’s mercy. He liked even more how there was no need to hide themselves away or quiet themselves down for their morning playtime—Davy and Micky had been discreet or resigned enough to get up early yesterday and today and leave them to it. Mike could understand the allure of the town snow sculpture competition at the base of the hill today, but the polar bear plunge yesterday? If Micky and Davy hadn’t known before they got there that it was swimming in icy water, they’d…soon learned. So Mike and Peter had the barn to themselves, and were luxuriating in it.

“Still with me?” Peter flattened his tongue, taking Mike to the back of his throat.

“Oh yeah. You know, you might look like sweet, but you’re _dirty_ , kid.” Mike took in a huge breath and increased his thrusts into Peter’s mouth. “Dirty and sweet,” he said on an exhaled gasp. Peter rubbing on the bundle of nerves just below the head of Mike’s dick made him rock his hips. “ _Fuck._ Take me deeper. I know you can.”

Peter swallowed Mike as deep as he could before withdrawing, and this time Mike shivered all over. He rammed into Peter a couple more times, his shiver becoming a tremble and his cock throbbing as he came hard down Peter’s throat. He was surprised he’d lasted as long as he had. He pushed twice more before he pulled out. “ _Jesus._ Think I’m dead.”

“No…” Peter lay on top of him, long enough to press his ear to Mike’s chest and tap his fingers on Mike’s sternum in an echo of his heartbeat before he rolled off slightly. “Better not be, before…” He pressed his erection into Mike’s stomach.

“I get you off?” Mike was still breathless and his muscles quivering, but he took Peter’s cock in his hand, encouraging him move how he wanted, to take what he needed. “Ever told you how much I love watching you suck my dick?” he whispered. “I think you were born to do it. Born for me. Like I was made for you.”

The combination of his words, his strokes and Peter rocking into him brought him off within a minute, lurching into Mike and shooting across his abdomen. “You’re so goddam _hot_ ,” Mike praised, helping him milk out the last drops, uncaring of the sticky mess. He tucked Peter’s head under his chin, him feeling Peter’s heartbeat this time, from where he held Peter clasped tight to him.

Peter was content to be held and petted, but they were on a timetable that day, and he eventually pushed himself up into a sit. A smile curved his lips, making Mike wish he could thrust between them again. “What?” he asked.

“We’re leaving soon, so we have to go and say our goodbyes.”

“Of course. I got manners, boy! I know we got people to see.”

“And places to go.” Peter pulled Mike to his feet.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. Places…to revisit, I should say. Something I want to do. You—”

“Are with you, yeah.” Whatever. Wherever. Mike was.


	24. Chapter Twenty-Four

“Well, the animal theme to this vacation is something I’ll never forget,” Mike said as they left the barn. “Oh, not talking about you, earlier, shotgun.” He endured Peter’s punch to his upper arm. “What? That’s a compliment, man! No, I mean sleeping on a bed of hay in a barn.”

“Some could say it’s in keeping with the time of year?” Peter commented. “Like, barn, stable…”

“And showering in a sluice room? How’s that fit into your theme?”

“Hmm. Not sure. But you bathed in a cow dip too!” Peter reminded him.

“Oh yeah. Surprised there was no salt lick on the wall, as well.” Mike ran a hand down the side of the wood.

“There was. Micky got to it first. And the bucket of root vegetable tops left for a treat.”

Peter looked so matter of fact, Mike half-believed him. But he did a double take in the small shed attached to the barn. “Snowshoes.” He looked from the tennis-racquet-looking things to Peter. “Are you kidding me?

“It’s those or these, for getting over the ground.” _These_ were the long skis Peter was strapping on.

“I can’t walk in those.” Mike scanned the jumble of items and saw a familiar enough one. “But what about…this?”

Which was how Mike came to be sitting on the old-fashioned family-sized wooden sled…and Peter pulling him over the snow. “I could get used to this!” he called up into the still, snow-thick morning, letting its crisp, cold air fill his nose and mouth.

“I damn well couldn’t,” and “This is _so_ not cool!” and “This is _not_ my bag!” floated back to hm at intervals from the reluctant human pulling at the front of the sled, digging its ski pole into the snow to assist him.

Mike guessed their destination even before he caught sight of the huge old oak tree, although _that_ was hard to miss. Peter waited for hm to unfold his long legs and get out. The initial carved into the tree stood out like a scar to Mike. He grimaced. “No chance this was Elizabeth? Elsa? Or hell, even Erin?”

“Huh?”

Peter’s brow furrowed, so Mike took his fingers to trace over the _E_ cut into the bark. “Ezra got here first, I presume.”

“Oh, _wow_!” Peter laughed. “I’d almost forgotten that. It’s not what you think. Yes, this is where I first saw him. _We_ first saw him. Little punk was defacing our tree! So we stopped him.”

“Like a posse.” Mike could see it— _had_ seen the four kids in countless photos, some with bows and arrows…

“Team Thorkelson.” Peter grinned. “His family moved into the neighborhood and he was sent to introduce himself to the nearest family with kids his age. He didn’t fancy coming in…seems he caught a glimpse of the four of us. So he explored the grounds instead. I guess he couldn’t resist this.”

“You could. You said you’d never carve initials into a tree,” Mike reminded him.

“Then I added that I might, depending on what we did there,” Peter reminded _him_.

Mike studied his face. “You mean—” His gaze was drawn to Peter’s movement, to his hand sliding into his pocket, and emerging…with a penknife that he held out to Mike.

Mike took it. “That’s my knife!”

“I gave it to you.”

“That doesn’t…” Mike gave up on arguing in favor of carving. It wasn’t as easy as he’d thought.

“That supposed to be a heart?” Peter sniffed. “Looks like a pumpkin. No, a tomato.”

“Think you can do better there, Grinling Gibbons?” Mike held out the knife.

“ _What?_ ”

“He was a wood—”

“Carver. Yeah, I know.”

“And you’re surprised I do?” Mike eyed him.

“Yeaaah.”

“Fair enough.” Mike had to grin at Peter’s expression. “But you should know by now I’m not just a staggeringly handsome face and a tall, lean, sexy bod—”

He was handsome and tall enough for Peter to cut off his words by crowding him against the tree and kissing him, and for Mike to kiss Peter back. When they’d kissed enough for the moment, they finished the heart together and next discussion was over what initials to put inside it.

“It should be _PHT_ and _RMN_ ,” Peter mused.

“Except we don’t go by those names.” Mike shook his head. “So _MN_ and _PT_.”

“I hate those initials—they also stand for physical training,” Peter pointed out.

“Peter and Michael?”

Peter shook his head again. “Seems like we’re waiting for Wendy. Or a crocodile. And you know what happened last time we got mixed up with _that_ story.”

Mike shuddered—the memory was still fresh, 'Wendy' and the 'crocodile' included.

They settled on _P_ and _M_ , as curly and twirly as Mike could make them. “I ain’t going through this argument again if we decide to get a tattoo.” Mike cast a glance at Peter. “I’m just gonna get a picture done on me of my—”

“Wool hat?”

Mike found that hilarious. “No!” he spluttered. “My _instrument_.”

Pressing close, Peter cupped him. “ _Really?_ ” Mike started laughing again and Peter had started to say, “To scale? And who would tattoo…that?” when he stopped and pointed over to a small clump of bushes not far from the fence. “Isn’t that—”

Mike was too used to life in the frozen north by now to think the furry figure a bear. Besides, he recognized that mink. For a moment, he thought he recognized the guy with her, who was, well, sneaking through the fence back to the road, too. Ezra’s father? He stared harder. No. Thank the Lord.

“Is that Old Man Ketchen?” Peter pulled a face. “Well well. Still, at least it keeps her away from Micky.”

“ _What?_ ” gasped Mike.

“What, what? You can’t tell me weren’t thinking that,” Peter said.

“I wasn’t! I _sooo_ wasn’t,” Mike protested. “But I am now _._ ” _And wish I wasn’t._

 _Sorry._ Peter squeezed Mike’s hand to go along with his thought. “Grandmama?” He waved Cait over. “Wasn’t that Old M—I mean Mr. Ketchen from News and Booze?”

“And?” Cait’s glare was imperial. “Please don’t Bogart my holiday fun, man. That’s awfully square.”

“We’re not!” Peter assured her. “But why sneak around out here? Why can’t he come to the house?”

“Yes, and visit with you as befits a gentleman courting a lady?” Mike cringed to hear the echo of his own words, and at the looks the others turned and gave him. Damn his southern social sensibilities, rearing their stupid head at stupider times.

“House? After that row with your father, last St. Patrick’s Day?” Cait scoffed. “And anyway, I don’t want to find myself the topic of a blind item in the _Clothesline_ column of the local rag. You know, the anonymous gossip bit of the local ‘paper’, the _Mansfield Hue and Cry_? Oh. You do know…it’s your father who writes that column?”

“I…do now,” came Peter’s weak-sounding reply. He grabbed Mike for support.

Cait sighed. “I love John dearly, but the man is just not happy unless he has something to gossip about.”

“I thought it was to argue about,” Mike had to say.

“Oh, that too.” Cait nodded.

“Same kinda thing, I guess.” Mike tried to reason it out.

“That’s a very good idea.” Cait pointed at the sled and its makeshift reins. “I’m exhausted! Could I trouble you for a ride?”

“Our pleasure.” Mike helped her to sit and took her snowshoes to put on so he could walk easily and help in pulling her along. The drag surprised him.

“Yes, not that easy, is it?” Peter’s face wore a _now you know how I felt_ look.

“You actually pulling or just holding the rope?” Mike queried, knowing Peter’s capacity for instant payback. Little minx just smirked. Oh, he’d get it later. Mike would make him feel—

“Just like a queen!” Cait lilted from behind them. “And neither of you had better ask where my Turkish delight is!”

“We won’t,” Mike assured her, mainly because he didn’t understand what she meant. “Well, I’m sure learning a lot this vacation.”

“About…?”

“Grown-up adults, mainly,” Mike admitted.

“Mainly that there’s no such thing?” Cait called.

“Yeah.”

“Huh.” Peter looked as thoughtful as Mike felt. He’d learned a few things these holidays, too. Mike just hoped he was dealing okay with it all.

Once they arrived back at the house, Cait jumped off and hugged them in thanks. “I’m so sorry it’s your last day,” she said. “It’s been so lovely to meet you and get to know you, Michael. I’m very pleased Peter brought you. That you’re together, I mean.” She gave him an extra squeeze, then righted his hat when she stepped back. “I hope you enjoyed your break?”

“I enjoyed meeting Peter’s folks and being here, yep.” He had, he thought, but couldn’t really call it a break. He’d like one, though…

“I thought that. Yes…” Cait narrowed her eyes. “Peter, may I talk to you a second?”

“Sure.” Peter looked surprised.

“I’ll go load up the cases.” Mike checked he had the keys and trudged to the hire car. They’d packed, so it didn’t take him long to do a last hunt-around in the barn and load the trunk. They had to get moving, and he hoped the others wouldn’t be too long. When he drove up to the house again, bustle and noise greeted him on the steps and in the doorway.

“We w-w-won!” Micky, wet from the top of his head down, teeth chattering violently, showed him a huge rosette. “John, look!” He thrust the blue ribbon at John. “For the trophy c-c-case!” He made a grateful face at Ginia when she appeared with a blanket for him and Cait who handed him a hot water bottle that he took with his free hand

“You need a doctor,” Erin said. “There’s a medical bag upstairs. I can operate on you.”

“There’s a chemistry set!” Patrick announced. “I can make medicine.”

“No, no d-doctors. No chemists. I’m f-f-fine.,” Micky told her firmly. “I’m a lot drier now. See?” The wet towels discarded at his feet like Kleenex were testament to that.

“What—” Mike stopped himself. Did he want to know?

“Micky thought he’d get our snow sculpting team a head start,” Chris said.

“On _w-winning_ ,” Micky reminded the family, jigging on the spot.

“By making himself into the, what was it?” Matt asked him.

“B-base structure.”

“Lemme guess.” Mike closed his eyes. “Ya rolled down the hill until you were covered in snow and stood still at the bottom for the team to dress up and—”

“ _Win!_ ” Micky reminded them. Again. He sneezed.

“Why is your arm up and out like that?” Peter imitated Micky’s stance.

“It’s frozen.”

“Yes, but—”

“Oh, the theme this year was figures from history, and you know they assign the choices randomly?” Nick said. “We got—”

“Jeez, not _Hitler_?” Mike broke in, eyeing Micky’s arm out at right angles to his body.

“ _Hitler?_ ” Matt shook his head. “We got the _Queen_ , man!”

“Yeah, and funny thing was, Micky had a dress and pearls with him.” Chris was still frowning about that as Micky waved, like someone meeting her subjects.

“It’s not like that!” Davy tutted. “You have to imagine you’re screwing in a light bulb. Look.” He raised his hand vertically and gave a subdued twist of the wrist. “Women to the shoulder, men above the shoulder.” Everyone stared. “I’m English?” he reminded them. “And I don’t know how you won, wave like that, Mick.”

“Chris told you: Micky had a dress and pearls with him.” Peter sniggered.

“Right!” Mike clapped his hands together. “We gotta go, if we wanna catch our flights.”

“Well, we loved having you all, didn’t we, John?” Ginia hugged them all after they’d all thanked their hosts as properly as Mike could have wished for.

“Yes,” John replied.

Everyone waited, for a _but_ or an argument or something, but there was nothing. “What? _What?_ ” John asked, aggrieved.

Ginia handed small wrapped squares to Micky and Davy.

“Fudge!” Davy cried.

Mike wondered how long it’d be before he’d conned Micky’s out of him.

“And this.” John passed Peter a small jug.

“But that’s from the Gold Maple Leaf Award winning batch!” Peter unstopped it to sniff. “Wow. Thanks. Michael and I both love syrup. We’ll put it to good use, John.”

A sort of silence met this and Mike wondered whether breaking in to say, “He means on our pancakes. _Pancakes!_ Nothing else!” would make it better or—

“Worse.” Micky mimed zipping his lips.

“And come back for the maple syrup harvest celebrations in spring. It’s good to have all the family there for that.” John gave an awkward pat to Mike’s shoulder.

“ _Dad._ You mean Michael—”

“Is family and welcome anytime. Yes. And don’t get soppy, son.” John scowled at Peter, but with no heart in it.

“But it’s okay to have me here?” Mike whispered to John.

“Ginia’s sorting it. She has a lot of pull still. I think you know why.” John’s scowl darkened a tad.

“Charming one’s recruiter…batting long, thick eyelashes that frame big brown eyes above a pouty lower lip… No, you wouldn’t know anything about that,” Peter breathed in his ear.

“And Chris, Matt, you’re okay with everything?” Nick asked, inclining his head toward the Monkees, especially Mike.

“Yeah. We had a speech prepared, saying we’re fine with whatever Peter does with his dick—”

“Or whoever, but we realized that’d be crass,” Chris added to Matt’s words, raising his voice over John and Ginia’s horrified exclamations. “We were kinda unglued about losing our big bro, but turns out it’s like gaining another three, and one of them another big one.”

“Which we’re stoked about.” Matt took over again. “Especially next July, with you two looking after us. Here’s all the stuff I want to do in LA.” He gave them a list, and Peter’s mouth fell open at the length of the paper.

“And here’s mine.” Chris’ list unscrolled to the floor, and Mike’s mouth clacked open in response. “Oh, and here’s our favorite foods…” This screed was just as lengthy.

“And here’s food we don’t eat.” Matt’s paper matched the others in size.

“Oh, _brother_ ,” Mike muttered.

“Yeah. You all are.”

Enough to be included in the Team Thorkelson hug in which everyone was summoned to join. Davy, being smaller, was thoroughly squashed, but seeing as it was between Stacia and Elsa, he didn’t seem to mind.

“So while we’d probably be happy with whoever Pete chose—”

“We’re glad it’s you,” Matt finished for Chris. “You fit him well.”

“How would you know?” Mike asked quietly and wickedly, _payback_ written all over his face.

Chris’ and Matt’s _eewwws_ , and everyone else’s _whats?_ followed the jeep down the drive as they began their journey home.

**Epilogue**

Davy separated from them inside Bradley International Airport for his much longer flight to the UK, and Mike led the other two to Terminal One. Micky stopped them near a desk over at one side.

“This is where I get off.”

“Yeah, we’re going back to LA.” Mike pointed at the check-in.

“ _I_ am, yep.”

“We’re…not, Michael,” Peter underlined.

Mike had kinda suspected something from the quick glances and wiped-off smiles between the other three, but that wasn’t the most urgent matter at hand. “Wait a minute. Micky’s going on his own? On a _plane_?”

“Not exactly.” Micky hung a small paper sign around his neck by its string.

“ _Unaccompanied Minor_?” Mike read, in disbelief.

“It’s not exactly a lie.” Peter clapped a striped schoolboy’s cap on Micky’s curls. “There, Micky.”

“Micky, is it?” They all stared at the slim blonde stewardess who’d come up to them at the desk. “Micky?”

Peter nodded Micky’s head for him.

“Hello, cutie!” The leggy blue-eyed blonde hugged Micky. “You’re a big boy and you’re not scared at all, are you? I’m going to take you to the playroom before we go on the big aeroplane, get you a soda and snacks, and we can play a little game!”

Nodding frantically now, Micky clutched her hand and let her lead him off, then wrapped her arm around him, to press himself close to her side.

“Okayyy…” Mike handed Micky’s luggage to a uniformed guy who trudged after the pair. “And us?”

“We’re going to New York for New Year!” Peter fizzed with excitement. “It’s my extra extra present to you. I want to show you…everything. The things I did, the places I hung out… Me before you, I suppose you could call it.”

“I would love to see. See you.” Mike couldn’t find the words. “Oh, then it’ll be four!”

“Four… Oh!”

“Yeah. I'll be able to say you got the best ass in _four_ states.” Mike was looking forward to that. He spared a thought for Micky. Was he okay? Davy had said again just a few minutes ago, to keep an eye on him, and—

“Michael, I have a confession to make.” Peter’s voice had dropped to that low, velvet baritone that stroked Mike’s nerve endings.

“I think there’s a chapel in here someplace,” Mike said, swallowing.

“I peeked into the lining of your suitcase and saw the extra present you got me,” Peter continued, in a silken-as-sin whisper. “The bunny suit. The _actual_ bunny suit. All white and fluffy with a tail and ears. All sweet and innocent and… _I fucken love it_.”

“Shotgun…” Mike’s face had colored bright red during the first part of Peter’s speech, and heat fired through him at the last part. “…if you tell me you’re wearing it underneath what you got on now, I’ll…” He swung his head around wildly.

“What are you looking for?”

“The nearest restroom,” Mike confessed, through gritted teeth. “Where I’m gonna drag you into a stall, pull that coat off you and—”

“Excuse me!”

An air hostess hurried up to them, slighter less blonde than the first. She waved a letter at them. “Your little Micky said to give you this.” She waited a second, but when neither guy hit on her, shrugged and left.

“A letter?” Mike asked Peter, but his face was as blank as Mike’s. “I got chills down my spine, but here goes…”

_Hey guys,_

_You know Toby’s parents are selling the beach house after the problems Toby’s had there recently? Look,_ _hiring out the place for a movie shoot was a good idea! It’s not her fault she didn’t know what sort of movie they were making. That stuff with the contravening of state law, federal law, and city ordinance could have happened to anyone._

Mike raised puzzled eyes to Peter. “Can’t say as I was expecting this opening.”

“Or have any ideas what’s to follow,” Peter added. He pulled them down onto seats to read the rest.

 _And all the fuss about Amanda’s winter engagement and big spring wedding hit Toby hard. Me too._

“Mike, I’m scared.” Peter put his hand over his eyes.

“Join the club.” Mike read the rest aloud for him.

 _I said wouldn’t it be neat and show Amanda if we got married first, before she did, and…Toby took it as a proposal and said yes and she ran with it and now the wedding’s arranged for January. So_

“What?” Peter gasped. “Don’t stop there!”

“There’s no more, look!” This was the end of the page. “I guess he didn’t tear the second sheet off—it must be still on the jotter!”

“So…” Peter re-read the last bit. “We could get back to find the wedding taking place in the pad or that it took place and—”

“Toby’s living in the pad with us?” Mike had to laugh. “You know they’re only doing it for the wedding presents. Oh God, imagine what they asked for!”

Peter started laughing too. “We should call him, as soon as we land, find out what’s going on,” he said, between guffaws.

“Well, ain’t no point asking _Toby_ that!” Mike added, making Peter snigger even more, which made him chuckle harder too.

In fact, they were laughing on and off until they landed at LaGuardia, ready for their next adventure...


End file.
